Fallout
by antepathy
Summary: Sequel to "Break": what happens when the humans hear Ironhide's break? Are the Decepticons splintering? How can the Autobots pull themselves together? Yeah, I suck at these. More robot pain and suffering, how's that?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Oh frabjous day! The start of another patented antepathy fic guaranteed to end with robots in unrelenting misery. It helps a lot to have read "Break" first. I'm not saying that to story-whore, really. It will also help to read "Barricade: Control" from "Echoes". Again, not mandatory (fanfic __**homework**__?!), but…may help you follow the backstory. _

_If you like Barricade in misery, whoooooo, buddy, is this the fic for you. I can promise you: Autobots! Decepticons! Intrigue! Angst! The usual half-assed science which I just make up as I go along! Educational content! An exciting battle scene! Only ONE scene with no robots, and it's not a full chapter (and they're talking __**about**__ robots)! _

_Themes: Got two of them for you: trust (Who is trusting whom? Why?) and vision, in a physical sense (eyes/optics) and metaphorical (what we see/believe). You think I can top the disturbing and unpleasant reading experience that was "Break"? Let's find out! _

I.

Nemesis

"Hiding out here?" Blackout said, stepping through the doorway. The intel center's lighting was even dimmer than Repair Bay. He could barely make out Barricade's shape, picked out as gleams of light against the silver parts of his armor.

"Not hiding. Busy." Barricade sat up from where he'd slumped himself over the terminal, and began tapping out a report, the very picture of industry.

"Right. Busy."

Barricade dropped his hands against the console. "Do you have any actual business here? If not, security requirements require that—"

"See? Hiding," Blackout cut him off. "Behind words."

"Not hiding," Barricade insisted, wincing at how childish it sounded. "See you finally got that rotor repaired."

"Yeah. Tired of hearing your shit about it."

"Really? I have a long list of other improvements, if I have that kind of power over you."

Blackout snorted, only half in irritation. "Stop being a glitch, Barricade. Came to see how you were doing."

Barricade blinked, surprised. His eyes narrowed in their cages. "Why?"

"Gotta be some nasty reason?"

"Normally is."

"Sometimes isn't. You just don't seem as…happy as you should be."

"What are you, the happiness fairy?"

Blackout laughed. "There's an image for you." He flexed his rotors. "Got the wings for it and everything."

Despite himself, Barricade grinned.

Blackout stepped farther in. "Vortex reports initial assays of the Tunguska materials are promising. Air burst, so there's a large scatter. Makes collecting it kind of like a hunt. Got drones scrambling out there like little repair bots playing 'find the casualty'." The drones he'd supervised had bleeped happily the whole time, as if it were a game. They'd had a right to be happy, he'd decided. They were doing the work to save all their lives.

"Good to hear." Barricade said, without real enthusiasm. "Autobot interference?" He called up that report on his console, ready to input new data.

"Minimal. Two grounders. Easily overrun. We expect air reinforcements at any time, but until then, doing our best to haul up. Just brought up my second load, actually." He watched Barricade update the report. "Not telling you this for your report. Supposed to be happy. Your work. Your results."

"Hurray me," Barricade said, dully.

Blackout stepped across the room, slapping a large hand over the console. "Talk. Now."

Barricade tilted back in his chair, looking up at Blackout. "About what?"

"Look, I don't have your fancy tricks. Just talk to me. What's going on?"

"You seem more up on that than I am."

"Stop being dense," Blackout snapped. "As bad as talking to Starscream, sometimes." He looked around the intel center. "Gonna have to leave this room at some point. Everyone's talking about you, you know."

"Figures." But Barricade's processor ticked over almost audibly. Blackout waited. Finally, Barricade broke. "What are they saying?"

"No way. You talk first."

"Why'd you wait so long to get your rotor repaired, really."

"Not talk about me, you slaggin' glitch."

Sigh. "What do you want me to talk about?" Forced patience.

"Want to know why you're not celebrating. I would be. Megatron praised you publicly. Starscream's ready to throw a piston in envy."

"That would be worth seeing."

"Can't see it from in here."

"Why aren't you jealous?" Another point blank question.

"Not threatened by anyone's success. I'll prove myself on my own merits. Or not."

Barricade looked at him, evaluating. Blackout added. "Not smart enough to run an approach, you know. Some of us really are that simple."

Barricade sat back. "So you say."

"So I know."

"Bound to happen you'd know something," Barricade said, acidly. "Sooner or later."

"Why you keep doing that?" Blackout folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the console.

"Doing what? Talking? Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" Barricade's eyes spiralled tighter, directly against the innocence in his words.

"Keep trying to make this unpleasant."

"It's supposed to be pleasant?"

"It's an option."

"I have to get back to work," the smaller bot said, trying unsuccessfully to move the copter's hip off his console. With amusement, Blackout watched him try, first with the back of one wrist, then with both hands, then bracing his whole weight against it.

"If I wanted to play your kind of game, Barricade, I'd probably tell you how much that tickles."

Barricade slammed his fists against the edge of the console. "Leave me alone."

"No." Blackout lifted one of his large feet, and planted it squarely across Barricade's legs. "And don't think you're going anywhere. Not til we have this out."

"Something I would like to have 'out' is your foot out of my damn lap. Then you, out of my damn IC."

"No, sorry. Try again."

Barricade began poking at the copter's foot, trying to find a sensitive sensor node. "Tell me if this tickles, too," he hissed.

Actually a few of his pokes really hurt, but Blackout wasn't going to give up this easily. "Only if you tell me if this tickles." He wiggled his toes hard against the smaller bot's armor. The smaller bot squirmed, shifting his effort to try to pry up the copter's toes. Blackout started laughing. This was just…so ridiculous. Only Barricade was this annoying. When you were trying to help him. Starscream would have pulled rank but then run his mouth so long you'd beg him to stop. Or tear out your own audio.

Blackout stopped. "Come on, Barricade," he said. "Talk."

The smaller bot dropped his hands to his sides. "About what?!"

"Why you're upset."

"Not upset."

"Then how come you're not out there rubbing Starscream's arrogant face in it? Even Soundwave was impressed."

"Not really a good idea to get on Starscream's targeting grid right now." Barricade shifted uncomfortably. He didn't need to explain why Starscream wasn't feeling particularly beneficent toward him right now—Blackout had seen the whole thing.

"Yeah? You think he's going to forget if you stay out of sight for long enough?"

"Jets aren't known for their long term memories," Barricade retorted. "Attention span barely longer than a drone, most of them."

Blackout grunted agreement. "You might consider how he sees it, though. While he can remember."

"Meaning?"

"You think being labeled a 'coward' is such a hot idea?"

"Is that what he thinks?" Barricade's voice got hard.

Blackout shrugged. "Think about it: you're hiding from him. That's how he sees it. Means he thinks you're afraid of him."

Barricade swore. Should have seen that. Any sort of intelligence bot should have run that head-line. Not as good at it as he thought he was. Only now, he wasn't even sure he wanted to be any good at it. "I'm afraid of him?"

"Aren't you?"

"Can handle him," he said.

Blackout lifted his foot from Barricade's legs. "Then why don't you?"


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: anyone who knows me knows that I dread writing Autobots. How many different flavors of 'nice and honorable and good and decent' can we have? So…I live in fear of the Wrath of the Autobot Fans. But still, it's no fun if I __**only**__ pick on Decepticons. Sideswipe, btw, has some backstory, over as chapter one in another fic-collection here I am toying with called 'Echoes'. His is called 'Shattered Sun'. It might interest you. Maybe not. Just sayin'. Anyhow, shortish scene, trying to get some story on AND introduce two more Autobots. Let me know how badly I blew Sideswipe's character! :P _

II.

Diego Garcia

Sideswipe and Cliffjumper bounded off the C-17 Globemaster in good spirits. Good night. Good mission. A few 'cons would no longer be bothering the universe with their ugly presence. And no casualties on their side. Well, apart from MacCallum, who'd sprained an ankle. But even MacCallum had laughed it off. "Luck of the Irish," he'd joked. Which Sideswipe thought he got until someone told him MacCallum was a Scottish name.

"So much for a hero's welcome," Cliffjumper said, looking around. Normally there were at least a few others around to greet a returning squad.

"Must mean there's more action for us," Sideswipe said, happily. "Hope we don't miss out on all the fun."

"Let's head to Ops and find out."

They crossed the sun drenched runway to Hangar A1, still chatting. "And did you see when I took down that one guy?" Sideswipe was saying. "He was like nooooo and I was like shazam!" he demonstrated with a spinning leap that sent his blades in a silvery dangerous arc. "Sweet!"

Cliffjumper stopped him with a hand on his chassis. "Someone die or something?"

"Huh?" Sideswipe looked around. The room was filled with bots, but it was deadly quiet. He could still hear the last of his exclamations echoing off the walls. "Looks like everyone's here. Heeeeeey, who's the new girl?" He pointed at a cycle bot whose back was toward them talking with Chromia, her armor painted in vivid purple glittering swirls. He raised his voice. "Hey, new girl! Hot paint job!"

The purple cycle bot turned. Sideswipe's face fell. "Flareup? I—I didn't recognize you." Easy to do. That wasn't her paint job. And what the hell had happened to her optics? One, he could swear, was Decepticon red.

"Glad you like the paint," she said, poisonously sweet. "Decepticons did it for me." Yes, her other optic was 'con red. What the hell had happened? Last he heard there had been some foul up at that attack in Syria. He hadn't paid attention, much, once he'd realized there was going to be no counterattack he could get in on. Maybe he should pay attention to these things?

"Uh, yeah," he faltered. "Looks great."

"They replated some of the armor, too, you know. Their alloy." She shifted her shoulder plate at him, proudly. Even in the hangar lights, the swirls of paint glittered.

"They damaged you, first," Chromia cut in. "Don't forget to give them credit for that, too."

"That's what happens in battle," Flareup said, stiffly. "Right, Sideswipe?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, again, feeling dumb. What the hell had he missed?

"Oh, come on, Flareup!" Chromia balled her hands in frustration. "You can't be serious. You don't even know what they did to you. For all you know they could have planted explosives in your armor. Or a transmitter. Or a cortical overloader."

"If you're so afraid I'm a rolling bomb," Flareup snapped, "why don't you stand farther away from me?"

"It's not that. I just want Ratchet to check you out, that's all!"

"Why? I'm fine!"

"You're not fine. You've been through a lot."

"Damn right I've been through a lot. And thanks for your support," she said, acidly. "You don't ask Sideswipe here to go see Ratchet, and he's been through a lot, too. Do you?"

"That's different."

"It's exactly the same. I'm tired of being singled out because I'm female. I thought--" she dropped into her cycle mode, roaring her engine, "I thought you were too." She roared out of the hangar. Chromia dropped her hands helplessly by her sides.

"I am so glad I am not a girl," Sideswipe said, watching Flareup race down the runway.

"Shut up." Cliffjumper spat.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Nah, I got nothin'. A little sexy Seeker to kick off your weekend, though. _

III.

Nemesis

Starscream paused the playback. Walked around the display, slowly. Frowning. What had he done wrong? What could he have done better? They had won, but he could have won…better. By more. It was an old battle, yes, and he liked to consider he had progressed beyond those clumsy tactics. But how far? And was it far enough? Had command dulled his battle edge? Had losing it to Megatron cost him more than respect?

He refused to think of the present—what he'd be doing now instead of whatever insanity Megatron was pursuing. It only bred fury and discontent—sure enemies of a warrior's performance. No. He did not want to think of Megatron. Or of Bourzey, and the countless mistakes he had probably made there. Nor the humiliation of having been sent on such a mission, a punishment—what had Barricade called it? 'One of Megatron's little disciplinary specials'? Yes.

He didn't want think about Barricade, either. So instead he stared at cascading tactical scans of battles that were to him ancient history. They might have been tactical or strategic disasters, but they were a time when he knew his place, felt sure and confident of his own power.

Unlike now.

He barely registered the whoosh of the ready-room's door, or the approach of another bot, until the other stopped beside him.

"Blackout," he acknowledged, curtly.

"Tyger Pax, huh?" The copter tilted his head to consider the elevation displays in more detail. "Going back to the bad old days?"

The jet snapped off the playback. The tactical scan vanished. "A warrior continually hones his mind," he snapped. Those days were not so bad. Not like now.

Blackout stepped back, a little surprised. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just trying to make conversation."

"If I desire conversation, I will initiate it. If I desire intelligent conversation, I will merely have to face my disappointment."

"You know, Starscream," Blackout said, "there's a reason you don't have any friends."

"It is because I do not need any," the jet retorted.

The copter gave a snort of contempt. "Yeah. Sure." He headed back to the door, his shoulders stiff with frustration. "Have fun in here all by yourself, Air Commander."

*****

"Ready Room Delta," Blackout subvoc'd to Barricade. He leaned against the wall a few paces down from the ready room's door.

"Fine. How'd I let you talk me into this again?" Barricade said, sourly.

"Pulled some macho bullshit line on you and you fell for it." The copter's smirk could be heard over comm. So much for Barricade's continual put-downs about warriors.

"I hate you."

"Love you too, sweetheart. Should warn you—he's in a pretty ugly mood."

"Makes two of us."

"Want me to stick around in case things get rough?"

"No, but I might want you to stick around so I can kick your aft after this."

"You can try." A moment later. "You'll be okay?"

"Fine time to care now, whirly-brains. Yeah. I'll be fine." Blackout heard him log off his IC console through his internal systems. "And if I'm not, I wish you a lifetime of guilt."

"That's what I like about you, Barricade—your perpetual optimism."

"Really? I thought it was my devastating good looks." Barricade was under no illusion he was anything other than…unattractive.

"You just keep thinking that, delusion-bot."

"Just as well: I suspect my handsome face is about to get reconfigured."

"Can't get any worse."

"Always looking on the bright side, aren't you?"

"Good luck," Blackout said, but Barricade had already cut comm.

*****

"Starscream," Barricade burst with a jovial enthusiasm he didn't feel. "What a pleasant surprise to find you here."

"It is neither pleasant nor a surprise for me," the jet replied. He'd cued up the Tyger Pax playback after the copter had left, adjusting the actual combat with simulated scenarios. What if they had flown in a reverse-V formation instead? What if they had kept their grouping looser? What if Blackout had arrived with reinforcements a hemicycle earlier? So many variables—which ones actually mattered? "I suspect that Blackout gave you my location. However, if I had been entirely certain of the pleasure of this visit, I would have called up Saejon Three."

Barricade flinched. Starscream's jaw gritted in satisfaction. Let the pain begin, apparently.

Barricade dropped the boisterous act. Ridiculous anyway. Blackout should have stayed out of this. Since he hadn't, the least Barricade could do would be to keep him out of the circle of blame. "Small ship, Starscream. Sooner or later I'd run into you. Unless," he drawled, "of course, you'd be hiding from me."

"Me? Hide from _you_?" Starscream pretended to be engrossed in another combat scenario.

"That's what I thought." Barricade stared at the combat sim. The jet looked over at him. Back to the sim. Back at Barricade. Dying to know what the smaller bot was thinking—Barricade could feel it build up in him.

Finally, the jet snapped, "If you are waiting for my congratulations, you will have to wait longer than this."

"Don't want congratulations," Barricade said, "Yours or anyone's."

"Well then, what do you want?" He gestured at the simulation. "As you can see I am busy."

"So busy you've got nothing better to do than slag around with sims. Last time Megatron's met with you?" Barricade cursed himself even as the words left his mouth. You were here to calm things down, not escalate them. Can't you turn that damn thing off? Can't you, for once, try not to run a slagging approach?

The jet's eyes spiralled in tightly. "That is none of your business."

"Actually, it is my business. Access logs. You haven't met with him since returning from Bourzey." Barricade squinted his eyes shut against himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid bot. You're making it worse. Stop it. Now. Ego down. Way down. Forget the Saejon Three dig. Stop trying to power-over him. You know it doesn't work. He watched the jet seethe. Come on, he goaded himself. You can do this. Pride/ego up. Stroke his ego. Say how great he is. You know he'll respond to that. You know he will. He's about 90% ego. Stroke it. Just stroke it the right way for a change.

Stop being the interrogator. Start being…whatever the hell you actually are under all the self-delusion. Under all the artificial sentiments, feigned emotions, under the ruthless processor. Dig under that. Let that speak for a change. What came out was…. "I'm sorry." He winced, waiting for the jet to run with it, take his apology and tear it down. He felt Starscream's eyes hard on him. Could almost hear the sneer on his face. Then, unreadable silence. Barricade looked up.

"It was…unconscionable, what you asked of me."

"I know." This, he decided, did not feel good. It felt, altogether, too much. He wanted numbness. When had he lost it?

A flare of anger. "Then why did you ask it?"

"I thought it was necessary. I thought it was the only way."

The jet grunted, folding his arms over his torso. His eyes were on, but not seeing, the combat sim. "There is never only one way, Barricade."

Barricade felt his hands tighten into knots of shame. "It seemed like it."

"It always does." Starscream froze the sim. "Why me? Why did you ask that of me? Do you hate me so much? Was Megatron's punishment not enough for you?" The jet's talons dug into the console, gouging the bare alloy.

Barricade blinked, surprised. Had he been entirely wrong in gauging the jet's head-line? All along? "Asked you because I trust you. Only one I know who'd stop it in time." Had the jet really thought he'd made him do it out of hate? Of all the bots who had a reason to trust the jet? Was Starscream questioning that?

"And is your trust supposed to be worth more to me than my honor?"

"Everything's a damned 'matter of honor' to you, Starscream." Damn these stupid warriors and their spark-cursed honor! Such a thing as getting the job done. He felt anger simmer in him. Forced it down. No. He wasn't going to defend what he did. Couldn't. Hot anger felt better than shame…but it was still not what he wanted to feel. It was still too much.

Starscream's voice was soft, somewhere between a whisper and a hiss. "What else is there, Barricade? Don't tell me you still believe in the Decepticon cause? As smart as you tell everyone you are?"

Barricade's central core went cold. "That's dangerous talk." Why would Starscream be talking sedition to the chief intelligence officer? Did he want to be offlined?

"Which is why I do not say it very often. But you seem to think there is something more important than coming out of this with honor." The jet rocked back against the console, arms over his chassis again. "I would like to know precisely what you think that is."

Barricade had no answer.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: This is your educational content of the story. And Optimus, so…oh I can't wait to get hammered by the Optimus fans. Keep in mind: I am an equal-opportunity angster. Of course OP gets his share o' angst. And here's an OC. But he's cool. Right? _

IV.

Aircraft Carrier USS Indomitable

Optimus felt several dozen hostile pairs of eyes turn toward him as he entered the impromptu briefing room set up on the wide deck of the carrier. Some of those seated stood in acknowledgement of his entry, but there was none of the 'glad you could make it' chatter like before. Only stony silence. "Gentlemen and ladies," he said, politely, feeling a pinch of nerves. He wasn't a diplomat. This was never his strong suit. He'd been staggering along enough with human/Autobot alliance before when things were easy. Now everyone had heard Ironhide's hostile and defamatory words. What could Optimus do? Apologize. Apologize again. He wasn't making any headway.

Assistant Secretary Galloway stood up at the front of the hastily-erected hut. "All right, gentlemen, now that we're all here," he looked sharply at Optimus as though he had been holding things up, "let us begin." He gestured to a figure in the back of the room, nearly standing alongside Optimus. The figure, in DCUs, strode forward, sweeping a beret off his head as he advanced.

"Master Sergeant Sternburgh," Galloway announced. Apparently the name was impressive to some of the humans. Optimus debated accessing his processor's search function, but didn't want to do anything right now that would jeopardize his attention. He shifted on his feet, listening to some of his new joints creak. They still needed finer machining, but Ratchet had done his best to get Prime presentable and mobile enough already. It hurt, but Prime wasn't going to complain.

"Afternoon, gentlemen, ladies," MSG Sternburgh said, nodding pointedly at the females, highlighting Galloway's rudeness. "DoD called me in to take a look at the footage, as you may know. My task—my team's task—was to verify the authenticity of the transmission and the statement. If you have any questions, please just shout 'em out." He picked up a clicker. The screen behind him burst to life. "I presume by now you have all seen this footage, so I will keep the volume low for the moment. We have it on loop."

Optimus had seen the footage—how could he not?—but still, the damning film drew his eyes. Ironhide, betraying everything Optimus had worked for. It hurt. It had to. He still didn't know what he was going to do, or say, to Ironhide. He still had this to deal with. He hoped he was picking the correct priority. He tore his attention back to the human.

"Our first task was to verify if the sentences themselves were authentic. That means, not a cut and paste, like a YouTube mashup. Our sig-int experts assure me that while the tape is edited—obviously—it's at the end of utterances. The sentences themselves are entire."

He paused. The transmission ran behind him. "Our next task was to determine if perhaps he had been forced to read off of some kind of script. As you know, this happens frequently with hostages in the Middle East. They are expected to read some statement about the evils of the society in which they live.

"That is not the case here. This is no script."

A hand shot up. "How do you know?"

"All right. The scripts normally include the speaker apologizing and renouncing his former life, at the very least, and extolling the power and rightness of his captors. That," he shook his head ruefully, "is not this."

"You said 'normally'."

"We have to consider the purpose of the recording. And the quality of the performance as well. In our usual scripted scenarios, the captives do not try particularly hard to be convincing. Why, then, would this Ironhide give what amounts to an Oscar-worthy acting performance?"

"Depends on what they were doing to me."

Sternburgh turned to face his questioner. He seemed, Optimus thought, to stumble a bit. Or maybe Optimus was just projecting his own injury on the human. It had been…a lot to process. Ratchet had warned him. "That's just it. Torture, right? We all think under torture, we'll say…whatever necessary. While that has been demonstrably proven with physical torture, it has never been conclusively proven with any other sort of pressure. Even setting aside how well you could practice your actorly craft while someone was ripping off your fingernails."

"There was that kid who confessed to murder once." A woman in a skirted suit said, sitting forward.

"Ah, the Allen Chesnet case. Yes. He produced a written confession, you'll remember. That's really more to do with false memory and sleep deprivation than this. Neuroscience and adolescent brain plasticity, you know? Neither of which apply to this scenario. I could go into that later, if you like. But I find the more convincing evidence is here."

He clicked his controller, and the transmission skipped to a blank screen. "Microexpressions, ladies and gentlemen. Brief, fraction-of-a-second facial expressions; hundreds of times more reliable than lasting expressions to determine mood and motivation. You've heard of these? If not, I have a bibliography at the back of my report. I suggest you begin with Ekman." He gestured, and a female soldier in DCUs, with two slim chevrons on her sleeves and blonde hair pulled into a tight braid, began handing out paper packets. She handed one to Optimus as well. The Autobot held it with clumsy fingers. He would have one of the smaller bots look at it later.

"Well, we decided to operate on the presumption that our Cybertronian…." For the first time, he seemed to reach for a word, "guests have entirely consistent body language. Meaning, they react exactly as you or I. On a macro scale, this is obvious—they can look happy or sad or surprised. We have mutual intelligibility of these expressions. Based on that, we decided to presume that microexpressions might occur as well. Going back to the notion of is this robot 'acting', well…if he is, he's acting in ways that directly fit human facial expressions. How and why these Decepticons would coach him on these….?" He let the question dangle. It did seem unlikely, even to Optimus. The Decepticons did not seem to care much for the humans. Definitely not enough to train someone to out-act their best actors. And Optimus couldn't think of a less-forthright bot than Ironhide.

The clicker moved the transmission. It crawled into slow motion. "You can see the transcript of this, this is Microexpression Exhibit Alpha, on page 29 of your packet, if you want to follow along with the words. You can see here," he froze the crawling tape. "Contempt. See the curling lip? The wrinkle at the bridge of the nose? Like a bad smell? Classic." He sped the transmission up. Prime heard Ironhide's angry voice, "Slaggin' useless humans. Come along just to keep the illusion that they're still in control." He saw the features that the Master Sergeant described numbly. He absently rubbed the new, unprimered plating of one wrist.

Sternburgh commented, "The contempt is for the humans."

"How do you know it's not toward his interrogator?"

"Good question." Sternburgh beamed at the questioner. "He doesn't like his interrogator. That's," he fumbled with his copy of the report and the clicker. "Here. Exhibit Echo." The transmission skipped and then picked up. Sternburgh froze it. "See the difference? The exposed teeth and the flare of the base of the nostrils, here the nasal plate lifting out. This is a textbook snarl."

"Can't he feel both—contempt and snarl—at his interrogator?"

"Extremely unlikely. The psychodynamics argue against it. Contempt is for something that you feel is not a threat. A snarl is for something that is, quite clearly, a threat. The interrogator threatens his self-concept, thus, the snarl. The subject of the humans' ability in combat is no threat to his self-concept. Complete disdain."

Director Galloway looked pointedly back at Optimus, crossing his legs. The creases of his trousers seemed to point accusingly at the screen.

"He's obviously upset," someone added. "Duress."

"First, you blurt in duress. Probably statistically more likely to blurt the truth than to make up something on the spot." He turned to his script again. "As to what's upsetting him, it's totally unrelated. Watch." He played another clip. Froze it. "See this upside-down U shape of the lower lip? With the forward thrust of the lip? We call that 'Heartbreak Ridge.'" He laughed. "It's a cheezy title, sure. But tells you everything you need to know. He's not getting pressured by rage. He's getting pressured by sorrow. Whatever this interrogator's using on him is not affecting his anger controls. This is him. And his anger."

Galloway shifted, riffling through the report. "We need to move along. Conclusions?"

The Master Sergeant looked crestfallen—he was clearly just warming to his favorite theme. Optimus could respect the soldier's enthusiasm, even though every word he said made Prime heartsick.

"The report is thorough. Only one aspect we were unable to investigate is, of course, the original language. We have the raw feed in Cybertronian as well as several dozen translations into Earth languages. Impressive translation protocols they have, by the way. There is apparently a human expert in the Cybertronian language, but we have been unable to acquire her for our team." He shot a pointed look at Galloway, who pinched his lips. "This is a faultless translation as near as we can tell, which we have had to get from the Autobots." He looked unhappy about having to rely on them. Made sense, Optimus thought. Why trust the Autobots when you were investigating them? "The vocal modulations even match."

Galloway gave him a hostile eye. Sternburgh sighed. "In conclusion, then. Everything this bot, this Ironhide says, is exactly how he feels. He is not reading a script. He is not being forced to say this. The interrogator himself," and he paused for one last clip. Optimus heard Barricade's calm voice, again asking such a reasonable question, "is clearly not using overt or illegal tactics. This is who the bot is and how he feels. End of discussion."

"Anything else?" Galloway asked, standing up to shoo Sternburgh back.

"Yeah. I want this Barricade guy on my team. Yesterday."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: A close observer might recognize Max. And yeah, his parents thought the name would be funny. Science geek joke. Sorry that nothing's really 'happened' yet. Still more or less throwing balls up into the air and seeing which ones are worth catching. Ironhide is. _

V.

**Diego Garcia Hangar Delta 1**

Ironhide had no real reason to be in the repair hangar. Compared to Flareup, or Chromia, or even Prime, he'd come out of the whole Bourzey nightmare unscathed. The Decepticon repair bots had repaired all of his battle damage—so well, so faultlessly, that Ratchet frowned in something like professional jealousy. "And they did this in how long?" he'd asked. Ironhide had stretched the numbers considerably. A lie, but it seemed whenever he spoke the truth, someone got hurt.

His only physical damage were a few scrapes from the plasmesh carry harness, and his pulse cannons, which sat in the corner, waiting to be reinstalled. Waiting, apparently, for Prime's approbation. Which, Ironhide thought, would be a long time coming. Long time before Ironhide would be trusted armed. Or at all.

He hated the sudden ripple of silence whenever he walked into one of the other hangars, or worse, the strained courtesy that only a few even dared. Always a little too loud, a little too chummy. So false even Ironhide could tell. He couldn't blame them. They were Autobots—they weren't hypocrites. Even if he just sat by himself, he got the distinct impression he was killing the atmosphere. Or worse: that they were talking about him—either with contempt or pity. He couldn't decide which he'd hate more. It was infuriating to be there and hear any part of it. Not infuriating—some nauseating half mix of fury and shame.

So he hung around, (like a coward, he berated himself), in the repair hangar. Ratchet's kingdom. Ratchet tolerated his presence, possibly because Ironhide stayed the hell out of the way. Ratchet certainly didn't invite conversation, instead spending hour after hour updating supply lists, or, if nothing else was more pressing, organizing and reorganizing his tools, resetting his emergency packs with supplies. All the tedious garrison work a bot normally hated. Ironhide couldn't blame him. Probably wouldn't go out of his way to be friendly to himself, either.

Ironhide almost envied the medic bot—at least Ratchet had some distraction. He debated asking if he could help, but decided that Ratchet might banish him from the repair hangar altogether. Better to be quiet, and have this safe haven, even if it meant being locked in his own thoughts. Better to be quiet, period. Look at what happened when he opened his damn mouth.

Oh, why had he said that? He was just so angry, and Flareup's injuries were burning into his optical processors and he couldn't think straight. Had he honestly thought his anger at the humans would force that stupid 'con to back down? What had he been thinking?

Obvious: he hadn't been.

He sighed, looking down with despair at his too-naked forearms.

Ratchet looked over, caught Ironhide's pose. "Don't worry. He'll give the word as soon as he gets back."

"Huh?"

"The pulse cannons. Just a formality, you know. He's just been really busy since your return."

"Really busy trying to run damage control on my damage."

"Busy," Ratchet said, as if it was pointless to go further. "Things'll calm down and you'll see."

Ironhide watched Sideswipe and Cliffjumper swagger into 1 Alpha. Should be his self-confident stride, his triumphant return. "I don't know if I want to see."

"What's that mean?" Ratchet put down the wrench he had been inspecting for picocorrosion, pointedly.

Ironhide sighed. "I'm too old for this. Done this too long. Lost my…" (damn mind) "perspective."

"You said something…," Ratchet's turn to reach for a word, "infelicitous. That's all. It happens."

Ironhide had to run the word through is translation protocol. He snorted, bitterly. That's the best Ratchet could come up with? 'Infelicitous'? "I single-handedly blew the entire human/Autobot alliance," he retorted.

"Now," Ratchet said, soothingly, "If you'd actually done that, that might be impressive. But all you did was speak your mind. These American humans, at any rate, value that. 'Everyone' they tell me, 'is entitled to their own opinion.' Surely they can't hold yours against you."

Ironhide wasn't convinced. He shook his head.

"Besides," the medic bot continued, "I'm sure there are hundreds, if not more, humans who would say exactly the same things about Autobots." Slight pause, correction, "Not exactly the same things. But I'm sure they have xenophobic humans, too."

"I'm not xenophobic!" Ironhide snapped. Dammit, that hadn't been the point of what he'd been trying to say at all. Did no one understand him? "I'm not afraid of Megatron: You think some pathetic walking plasma bag frightens me?"

"Boo," said a voice. Ironhide whirled around, to see one of the human engineers standing in the doorway to Delta 2. It was one of the graduate students. The one who had been most upset at Miss Silver's injury. Even Ratchet cringed.

"Just came to get my stuff," the human said, blandly. "Be out of your way in a minute."

"What stuff, Mr. Plank?" Ratchet asked, "Why?" First the linguist gone, but she was injured. And now the engineers? Why?

Max shrugged. "Pulling us out of here, didn't you hear? Since apparently all of you are so grossed out by us touching you." His voice was bitter.

"Mr. Plank, that's simply untrue. We are immeasurably grateful for your assistance." Ratchet gestured at Ironhide, 'say something'.

Max crossed over to a red-enameled toolchest, and began tossing tools—wrenches, clamps, and various meters—into a canvas satchel. "Not my call." He yanked open a drawer at the toolchest next to his, showing its insides empty. "Last to leave, that's all. Lovely parting gift I got: debriefing by the Colonel." His face flushed red with repressed anger.

"Look. Max, right?" Ironhide faltered. Ratchet encouraged him with a gesture. "Didn't mean that, what I said. Really. It just came out wrong. Or something."

Max squatted by the satchel, looking up at Ironhide. "Don't worry about it. Makes sense. I'd be grossed out if something a quarter my height started poking at my guts, too." He snapped the satchel shut and stood up, slinging it over his shoulder. "Well, Ratch. It's been real." He gave a mock salute and headed to the door, turning his back squarely on the other Autobot.

"Mr. Plank," Ratchet called out to him, "Please pass my greetings to Miss Silver, if you should see her."

Max stopped, turned on his heel. For the first time there was real anger in his gaze, directed at the bots. "Don't think so, Ratchet. None of you were here to protect her. And I think she's finally figured out how cheap and empty words can be."

He turned his glare to Ironhide. "And sometimes how much they hurt."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N Everyone's favorite copter, combat mission. Sweet. I know it's taking this story a while to get off the ground (ha ha funny joke for aerial combat scene) but…trust me. Everyone you've met so far…gets in a worse situation by the end. Meanwhile, enjoy the angst! (Wait...that's one of them there paradoxes or somethin'....) _

_(Oh and because you asked: Vortex's alt mode is a Chinook. For some reason, a big dual rotor helicopter totally works for me. Rowr. I know in G1 canon, Vortex is a fairly small copter, but...can you think of a better name than Vortex for a big Chinook?) _

VI.

**Tunguska**

"Something on your six, coming in low and fast," Blackout heard Vortex's calm voice across his mission commnet. He checked his proximity systems and then his hemi-scan radar. There it was. There they were.

"Blood bag flyboys, looks like," he said.

"Soviet," Vortex said. "Haven't had much contact with them. You want me to abort lift and help?"

Blackout got them on visual. Three of them. Su-27s—fighter jets, his armaments-database told him. Air-to-air; two guns, 150 rounds max. High top speed—he couldn't beat that. But he could outwait them, run them out of ammo. "Think I can handle them. Slow ascent til I get these drones off?"

"You got it." Vortex who had been lifting his latest lode of energon nodules up to the Nemesis, paused his ascent, letting himself drift high-ceilinged towards the approaching planes. Blackout swooped down, a little rough, but the drones only jostled against each other. Their dronemaster quieted them quickly, and herded them off Blackout's doors as soon as he pushed them open.

The dronemaster slapped Blackout's fuselage as the last exited. "Need me?"

"Need you down there in case the drones need to ground assault." With a brisk nod, the dronemaster leapt out himself, landing on the hard dirt in the clearing the two copters had been using as an LZ. "Ready, Vortex."

Vortex resumed his climb, but he shot out two magnetic scramblers as the planes zipped under him. "Parting gift. Hope you don't mind if it takes some of the fun out of it."

"I'll manage to make my own fun."

"Always do," Vortex said. "Only, this time, give the enemy most of the pain?"

Blackout winced, hating to be reminded about that. His good mood dissipated. "Oh, they'll get plenty," he hissed, and cut comm.

The first of the jets blazed over him, turning in a tight roll and rocketing up after Vortex. Underestimate me, will you? Sorry you won't have a chance to learn from your mistake. He raced after it. He couldn't touch the jet's top speed—Starscream could beat it handily, but he wouldn't lower himself to escort work unless under extreme duress. Like, Megatron-beating duress.

He opened up with his boosted .50 cals, punching a line in the air toward the Sukhoi.

Vortext buzzed him—not over mission commnet but over private comm. "Don't have to worry. I'm out of his range."

"Not the point."

"Don't waste yourself, Blackout."

"Not the point!"

Vortex sighed over the comm and spun around, opening up on the jet with his own guns. One of the engines exploded. The jet spun frantically toward the ground. "Save it for someone worth it," he said, resuming his lift. Blackout cursed, but at himself or Vortex, he couldn't tell. He let his main rotor snap him in a sharp 180 and headed toward the other two jets who were looping around to figure an assault vector on him.

One scraped the nap of the earth, its guns tearing through the forest at the drones. The drone master clicked open his mission comm, in case Blackout had any words of wisdom, but did a respectable enough job getting the drones to scatter and cover. A few picked up their master's example and fired back. Uselessly, of course, but it was enough to cause the jet to bank sharply and claw for altitude.

Blackout did a quick combat calc, and tilted his rotors to create a vortex ring. He plummeted through the sky, flaring the rotors just enough to stay upright, until he slammed through the fuselage of the other jet. The kind of intercept they never saw coming. Especially from a copter. He shifted his angle, his rotors pulling out of the vortex ring and biting the air, his straight descent turning into a glide, and then, slowly, into an uplift as his rotors bit the air. The jet exploded behind him fantastically—he could feel the heat on his tail.

Vortex's scramblers made short work of the air-to-air missiles. Though they read to the remaining pilot as target-locked, they careened harmlessly off course. Nice, Blackout admitted, grudgingly. Going to have to start carrying those. He hated admitting Vortex was as good as he was—mainly because Vortex underplayed it himself. For megacycles Blackout had hated Vortex's attitude of 'do the job and come back alive.' Now, it was beginning to make sense, but Blackout didn't know if that was wisdom or cowardice.

He'd figure that out later. Right now, he knew he had some wisdom to share with a certain pilot. He felt his good mood coming back to him. This he could handle. In fact, this was just what he needed. "My turn to say hi," he said, opening up with his larger cannon.


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

USS Indomitable

Optimus waited near the flightline watching his transport helicopter approach. In a way he wanted it to get here now, as soon as possible, so he could get this ugly work over and behind him. In another way, though, he wanted it never to arrive so he wouldn't have to take another step down this road. This needs to be done, he told himself. Then stopped. He was getting tired of saying that to himself. If he allowed himself to think about it, he hated being the leader. He was flattered, of course, that his fellow Autobots respected him and took his opinions for wisdom. But they didn't see, sometimes, the burden it placed on him. To be perfect, to be calm and in control. All the time. To have to think three moves ahead and from a half-dozen different perspectives.

He did it, of course, because he was the only one who could do it. That wasn't arrogance or narcissism. If Sideswipe were in charge, they'd have rushed suicidally, but gloriously, into battle long ago. They would all have died, but they would have died, as Sideswipe would say, 'looking cool.' He almost smiled thinking that. And if Ironhide—the smile died. He didn't want to think about Ironhide right now. It opened a gaping hole near his spark chamber.

This whole meeting…. They'd brought him here—why? To go back and answer the questions no one ever questioned—that Ironhide said those things. And then merely to dismiss him so they could talk about the 'repercussions' and 'implications' of Ironhide's xenophobic comments. Without him. As if he no longer mattered. He took it. What else could he do?

He heard the thunder of the approaching helicopter and looked up into the fading light. He couldn't help but think back to the Decepticon's approach, Ironhide dangling limply from one of the carry-harnesses the 'cons used. Even then something about Ironhide's—flaccidness—had bothered him. His optics caught a movement to his right. He looked down and saw the Master Sergeant from earlier, standing next to his assistant.

"So, Yee," Sternburgh was saying. "Looking forward to getting back?" He grinned.

"Oh yeah," the blonde joked, "Much rather be with you stinky bastards than with my husband."

"Naturally. Who wouldn't be?" He squinted at the copter, just becoming visible in the thin cloud cover. "This our hook?"

"Ours or his," Yee jerked her thumb at Optimus.

Sternburgh looked around, and caught sight of Optimus's blue shin. "Oh hey!" he called up. "Sorry. Not used to looking this far up." He laughed, clapping one hand on his head to keep his beret in place. "Crazy that I couldn't see you, huh?"

Optimus struggled for something to say. Something that couldn't offend. Something that wouldn't make the situation worse. "Your presentation was most interesting, Master Sergeant," he managed, finally.

"No big deal. The exciting part is that there's so much similarity. If you think about it statistically—now I'm not great at math, but I've asked a few of my sig int guys who are—it's pretty astronomical the odds that two species without common origin would share so much implicit body language. You know, we have more in common like that than we humans do with chimps!" Yee slapped him on the arm. "Oh, sorry. Get kind of hot to my theme, you know?"

"It is fascinating," Optimus agreed. Honestly—no politics or feigning aside. The odds were almost statistically incalculable.

Yee probably thought it was empty praise. "He'll go on all day like this if you let him. Terrible leader." She grinned cheekily at Sternburgh. "But he overpowers us with his example. Works harder and better'n any of us. We hate him." There was real respect in her teasing. It was obvious to Optimus that she didn't hate Sternburgh at all. That she found him inspiring. Followed him implicitly. Optimus felt a stab of something like envy. He bet Sternburgh hadn't had to deal with Jazz's well-meaning insubordination—that probably got him killed—or Bumblebee's borderline desertion to stay with the Witwicky boy. Or Ironhide. He sighed, audibly.

A sympathetic look crossed Sternburgh's face. "That's your guy we were talking about in there, wasn't it?" Optimus nodded, bleakly. "Sorry to have to do that. My job."

"I know, Master Sergeant."

"We all have bad apples from time to time," Yee cut in, sympathetically. "You just have to weed them out."

Sternburgh hushed her with a hand. "You can't control someone's thoughts," he said. "Actions are all you can really deal with. And I haven't heard that this Ironhide's ever acted on his opinions."

"Thank you for your kind words," Optimus said, "both of you. I don't understand, however, why you should be sympathetic. He said hateful things about your kind."

Yee laughed easily, squinting in the wash of the arriving chopper. "We're hum-int," she said. "We're used to being hated."

"You learn not to take it personally," Sternburgh added over his shoulder, heading for the opening doors. Optimus watched as Yee bent to help Sternburgh in.

How could he, he thought, not take it personally? Not just the humans' new distrust of him, but Ironhide's…betrayal. He hated to use the word, but that's what fit. Autobots did not hate. They especially did not hate those who were different or who depended upon them for protection. Such an attitude—anathema. Betrayal. He could dredge up a half-dozen impressively long English translations for it. None fully seemed to fit the emotion he was feeling, thinking of the attitude behind Ironhide's angry words. How long had Ironhide felt that way? Why hadn't he seen it coming?

Optimus watched the chopper take off, another one, his ride, hovering in the air waiting its turn. Is this…the thought came to him, slow and horrible as though it were crawling out of the approaching darkness…is this how the warrior class on Cybertron felt before the war? Had they felt similarly alienated, feared, despised, by those they had sworn to protect?


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

Nemesis

One of Barricade's internal IC zip points sounded, pulling him out of another bracing round of staring blankly at the monitor. Blackout was right, he thought. He had been doing this too much lately. Drifting into some mental state where he could pretend he didn't exist. That the past didn't exist. Too much he wanted to not remember. Unremember. He wondered if the human languages had a more accurate word. Or the concept. But even pursuing that idle thread meant remembering they were in this particular solar system, this particular galaxy. And all the rest of the history that brought them here fell in place like a path of ugly black tiles.

He didn't want to remember the interrogation. Didn't want to remember Flareup's last look at him as Soundwave's transmission ripped through the air—his doing. Didn't want to remember Starscream's rage. Much less Starscream's bordering-on-treasonous remark. If he moved at all, Barricade thought, he'd have to act. Instead, he found himself sitting, numb, trying to force his mind into…nothing. Peace? Calmness? They were beyond him. But empty—he'd take that.

Still. He sat up, slowly, his joints stiff. He'd been blowing off even routine maintenance lately. Should write myself up for that, he thought. Something to do that doesn't destroy something important.

Shake it, he said. This mood is pathetic. I begin to hate myself. Oh, wait, already do that. He called up the zip: a reminder that he should review and log intrasystem communications. That sounded suitably tedious—almost as dull as staring at the monitors stewing in angst—but at least something got done. The zip brought up a scrolling list of comm traffic in categories—local bot-to-bot (full of silly chatter, as usual), mission-channel (optempo picking up, he noted); all-channels (none, which meant he hadn't missed and huge emergency or, Primus forbid, final declaration of Decepticon victory); intersystem (base-to-base, also thin and routine); and finally a very small list of comms out of the Sol system.

Most of those were routine—he'd seen them before in previous zip-points, the comms lasting about the same amount of time—status reports and other business-of-warfare hail to the glories of bureaucracy stuff. One stood out to him. Far nebula. Wasn't even aware of any action out there. Who?

He hit Soundwave on his comm.

"What do you require?" Soundwave acknowledged, neutrally. Hi, how are you? I'm fine, thanks. And you?

"Looking at intrasystem comm for the logs. Call to RU-784A?"

"What of it?" Was it Barricade's imagination or had Soundwave's voice taken on a guarded tone?

"Who made it? Who is it to?

"Your reason for requesting this information?"

Barricade prickled. Soundwave was trying to stonewall him. Something was definitely up. "Let's see," he said, "I'll start with Chief Intel Officer." He didn't want to mention his suspicions—suspicions he hadn't even put into words. Had Starscream taken action? Was he trying to organize a coup? If so, whom would he contact? Who the hell was way out there, anyway?

"Megatron initiated the call." Barricade felt air ventilate in a rush. Wasn't Starscream. Wasn't that far along. Still a chance to stop him before he did something terminally stupid. And get them all killed. Soundwave didn't continue. As if hearing the name 'Megatron' should have ended the matter. If Barricade pushed it, he had no doubt that Soundwave would report the entire conversation directly to Megatron. Barricade debated. Should he push it? Right now he was in the leader's good graces. But he'd seen time and time again not only how briefly that lasted but also how little protection it afforded. He'd seen Starscream go from high praise to a regen-level beatdown in less than a solar cycle.

Of course, that was Starscream.

"Barricade." Soundwave. Asking if he was still there. Time's up, smarty-mech. Push it or no?

He forced a smile, knowing it would carry through his voice. "Thanks. All I really needed to know."

Soundwave clicked off without a reply.

Barricade sat back. This wasn't over. He'd find out another way. A way that didn't get Megatron's attention, good or bad. Soundwave liked to think he was the only comm resource on the Nemesis? He logged onto his console, calling up comm specs. Gigs of information jumped on the screen. Somewhere, in here, he thought. He'd find a way to track the call. Find who it was. Without anyone's help.

He felt something distantly familiar burn near his spark. He had a job to do. There was a reason Soundwave was suppressing the name of Megatron's contact. There was a reason the two of them didn't want anyone else to know. And that was reason enough for Barricade.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Yeah, completely devoid of anything clever to say.

IX.

Diego Garcia

Flareup circled the island, agitated. She'd never felt so…confined before. Not even on the Decepticon ship, where she was surrounded by enemies, and hadn't left the repair bay except that…except that once. That memory was a confused blur of redlighted agony—the harsh sound of the small red bot's laughter, Ironhide looking down at her, looking down _on_ her, blandly. Starscream's hands, cool and tight, around her shoulders. And then. And then Barricade, carrying her carefully to repair bay. She remembered the sensation of her foot tire swinging with each of his strides, her free arm bouncing, the hard slickness of his armor against hers. And the apologies. Over and over again, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," like a litany or a chant, even though he thought she was unconscious. You don't say words you don't mean when you think no one can hear you.

And no one understood her. No one understood that she heard the sincerity behind his words. No one else saw the concern in his eyes as he sat by her for cycles as she lay, bordering incoherent, in the repair cradle.

Of course they couldn't understand—they hadn't been there. But they could, at least, take her word for it.

Instead, they told her she needed some sort of therapy. Or 'time to readjust'. Or, and this from Arcee, "recommit to her priorities." Thanks, sis. What did Arcee know? She spent her whole time processing intelligence work. Arcee even managed to twist Barricade handing her down from the copter as him 'pawing' her.

Flareup wrapped her arms around her chassis, rubbing idly at a small scratch in her paint. Barricade's hands had rested in the same spot as the jet's. She could still feel the strong grip of his hands under her shoulder joints, hesitating to touch her. Afraid to hurt her. Making only that one small scratch. He wasn't evil. They were wrong.

She heard the rumble of an engine behind her. She flinched—she really didn't want company right now. She wanted to go over the memory. Figure it out for herself. Last thing she wanted was another lecture from Chromia. Or worse, Ratchet. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? That's all she wanted at this point. Since they couldn't be bothered to meet her halfway, the best they could do was not even try to meet her at all.

"Hey, Flareup?"

She sighed heavily, turning. "What do you want, Sideswipe?"

He looked taken aback. "I—uh, I just wanted to apologize. You know. For not recognizing you."

"Nothing to apologize for," she said. Get it over, so he'd go away. "Honest mistake."

"Yeah, uh, I just…," he approached closer, the sunset glinting red-orange off his silvered armor. "I think I missed a lot."

She snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

He stared at the waves lapping at the white sand beach in front of them. The setting sun turned the water violet and the sand pink. "You want to talk?"

"I've had more than enough offers of therapy, thanks." Another one. Another, 'but Flaaaaaare, you just need to talk about it.'

"Sorry. Didn't mean that way. Probably no good at that, anyway. Just wanted to hear it from you."

She turned. "Really?"

"Yeah."

She sighed. "Not much to tell. Ironhide and I were taken prisoner at Bourzey. We were brought up to the Nemesis."

Sideswipe winced. "Did they torture you?"

"No, well, yes, but…." She looked down at her hands. "I mean, not at first. They were actually really nice. I know, it sounds ridiculous. But it's true. Did full repairs. Talked to me."

"Talked to you?" She could see that Sideswipe was imagining some sort of vicious torrent of abuse.

"Yeah. That's it. He was really nice."

"He? Nice?!"

She caught herself. "Yeah. I knew one of them. All he did was talk to me. About them, you know, how they live."

He shook his head. "That doesn't sound right."

"Yeah," she said. "it doesn't sound like what we say about them. But that's what happened." A tinge of hostility in her voice. Like no one could believe a 'con could be decent. More like no one could acknowledge that their 'common knowledge' of the enemy might not be entirely accurate.

"Okay," Sideswipe said. He felt stupid. He knew he wasn't smart, but this was the first time he really felt it. He just wanted her to keep talking. "But they did hurt you."

"Others, yeah," she said. Until Barricade put a stop to it. She'd seen the injuries on his frame—the long claw marks that had to be Starscream's, the cracked facial plates. But she didn't think Sideswipe would understand that. "What was worse, really, was Ironhide."

"What'd they do to him?"

"Apparently nothing. He was standing there watching the whole thing."

"I don't think—"

"I saw him, Sideswipe. He was just looking down at me."

"They must have hurt him pretty bad."

"Nothing after Bourzey. That I know of. They repaired him, too. Fixed him all up so he could watch them beat me."

"Naaaaah. Flareup," Sideswipe said, "They must've done something pretty awful to him too."

She shrugged. What had she thought? That he would understand her? He didn't even think females should be in combat. "Ask him yourself, then. I don't care if you believe me or not," she said, her voice hard.

"I just meant that, you know. Well. Ironhide really cares about you. Everyone knows it. Maybe he was in shock or something." Sideswipe shifted uncomfortably. He hated all of this emotion talk. He just wanted to know whose ass he should look forward to kicking for this. For her. That much, he could do.

"You know what I love? I love how everyone keeps making excuses for him. You all run to his rescue like he's the victim. You know what? I'm the damn victim, if you care to think about it. My armor was ripped off. Not his. My eye destroyed. Not his. You should all be making allowances for _me_." She dropped down and spun off into the approaching night.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N Short sections this time and next—what? It's Thanksgiving. You can get your read on and still have room for turkey and shopping. X. Diego Garcia, Delta 1

Optimus dropped onto the repair frame harder than he'd intended. His new knee wasn't holding mass at angle-pressure as well as it should. Of course, that was why he was here in D1. One of the reasons. The other was that he really didn't have the heart to face the others.

Ratchet frowned at the sound. "New knee, huh?"

"It's fine," Optimus said. He knew Ratchet did his best, and under the circumstances—the time, the resources—Ratchet had done an amazing job getting Prime to function at all. He wasn't about to quibble over a creaky joint. "Just tired."

Ratchet ran a field-leak scanner over Prime. "Didn't go well, I take it. At the aircraft carrier."

"I don't know how it went. They sent me away so that they could discuss it. They should be reporting their decision soon." His mouth turned down bitterly. After MSG Sternburgh's presentation, they'd had reports from psychologists, and then the ambassadors of countries who had allied with the Autobots. He was supposed to be there to answer questions, but no one had had any for him. They treated him like a large piece of furniture. An in-the-way piece of furniture.

"That doesn't sound very positive."

"No. I thought not." He hated making Ratchet be his sounding board, but he knew that the medic's instincts were good. And also that Ratchet wouldn't share his opinions with anyone else. Good or bad.

"These humans shouldn't play fast and loose with our alliance like that," Ratchet grumbled, picking up a fine-machining tool. It clicked on with a whir. He applied it to Prime's knee, sanding away the parts that showed friction wear. "Sure they go their feelings hurt, but they can see there's a bit more at stake than that, can't they?"

"I hope so." He did. With every fragment of his spark, he hoped the humans knew the magnitude of what was at stake.

Ratchet lowered his voice, so quiet that Optimus had to strain to hear him over the machining tool. "You know Ironhide feels awful about it."

Optimus sighed. "I know."

"He'd like to apologize to you." Ratchet avoided his eyes. Optimus wondered if Ironhide had put him up to this. Or even knew. Ratchet sometimes went too far playing peacemaker.

"It's not me he has to apologize to, Ratchet." If only it were. "Where is he, anyway?"

Ratchet shifted uncomfortably, leaning closer in to the joint. "Straighten, please," he said, before answering. "He didn't want to be in your way, so when he saw you coming, he left." Ratchet looked up. "It's not cowardice."

"I understand. Ironhide doesn't need to be afraid of speaking to me: he knows that." More than that, Optimus trusted Ratchet would carry that message to the bot. Ironhide was prideful. It made things…difficult at times. But no one ever doubted his courage when it mattered. Ratchet nodded acknowledgement. Optimus continued, "I really would like to talk to him at some point. To hear his side of the story." He didn't think Ironhide had had a chance to do that yet.

Ratchet frowned, though at the sliver of metal he pulled out from a piston or at Optimus's words, Prime couldn't tell. "He hasn't exactly been open about that to me." A warning. A hint. Go easy on him.

"I just want to hear him out. He knows that I know him better than that." Than what? Prime couldn't say. He remembered his cold horror hearing those hateful words pouring out of the audio—watching the Master Sergeant's presentation showing Ironhide's face, a rictus of hatred, as he spat out his loathing of humans. Do I? He asked himself. Do I know him better than that?

"He's worried that you won't let him fight again." Ratchet reached for exterior joint lubricant, rubbing it into the newly-machined knee.

Prime sighed. "In the circumstances, it's inadvisable. Tensions are so high right now that if Ironhide knocked over a fire hydrant they'd read it as an act of war." He saw his own struggle reflected in Ratchet's face—necessity (diplomacy to the humans) over right (consideration of Ironhide's feelings). "I know it's hard for him. But just a little while longer." He slumped back against the hard flat surface of the repair frame, letting its cool metal suck heat out of his external heat sinks. He was tired. Beyond tired. And he hadn't even dealt with his fellow Autobots yet. They waited for him in Alpha 1; waited for the news, waited for him to be the leader and take charge and make everything right. He wished he had the ability to do that. He wished he had the energy.

"Decepticons," he heard himself say, "have forced recharge. I wish we had it."

Ratchet shook his head. "It's brutal. A bot has only a cycle's downtime per solar? No wonder the 'cons are all crazy."

"Still," Prime said, wearily, thinking of those in Alpha 1. Waiting for him.

"No," Ratchet said, firmly, snapping the cap on the lubricant closed. "The way to win this war is not to become like our enemy. Ironhide is struggling to learn that: make sure you don't need the same lesson."


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Yeah it's short, but you're leaving for Thanksgiving anyway. Plus, it makes up for it in intensity._

XI.

Nemesis

Starscream hesitated in the corridor outside Megatron's control chamber. What is it I am doing? he asked himself. You do not ask Megatron for favors. You do not show up unsummoned. Especially not you. But his de facto banishment from Megatron's presence—his banishment from leadership, in effect—had eaten away at his better senses. He could stand no longer being sidelined. Pushed aside like some broken or obsolescent tool. He coded the door open and walked in, forging (badly) confidence. Megatron saw him, but lowered his head back to his command console, pretending to be engrossed in reading some report. Starscream knew Megatron read every report—as had he when he was leader—but while he had scoured for tactical advantage, Megatron was looking for flaws.

He waited, locking his joints audibly into position. He would not go anywhere until Megatron heard his request. If that meant he had to recharge right here, he would. Now that he was here, his warrior courage would not let him retreat.

A cycle later, Megatron addressed him, snapping him out of his low-power state. "What is it you want, Starscream?"

"I." He faltered, wishing he had some of Barricade's easy way of words. "I have failed you on repeated occasions." The words burned in his vocalizer, even though he had practiced them in his head for cycles.

"Yes." Complete assent. What had he expected? Megatron to argue with him?

"I am no longer of service to this unit. I would better serve the Decepticon cause reassigned elsewhere. Where the mission is not so critical." There, he'd said it. It had taken every bolt of courage he had to force those words over the knot of shame in his throat.

"No." Megatron turned back to his console. Dismissing him.

"My-my lord?" Dangerous ground.

"I said no, Starscream. Did you not hear me clearly?" A slight edge to his voice now.

"But I am," he heard his voice fade, "am a liability to our combat effectiveness." He hated how meek his voice sounded.

"The one place you are not a liability, Starscream, is in combat." As close as Megatron would ever come to praise. The jet said nothing, his eyes guarded. Megatron leaned back, irritated. "I will not honor your obvious desire to foment rebellion against me from some distant corner of the universe, Starscream. You will stay right here, where I can keep an eye on you."

Starscream blinked, stunned. Megatron had never questioned his loyalty so directly. His intelligence, yes. His competence—on a nearly solar cycle basis. His command decisions, certainly. But he had never yet been accused of outright treason. It smacked of dishonor, this distrust. Starscream felt his hands begin to vibrate with suppressed emotion. "Megatron. My lord. I have never—"

"Nor will you get the chance, Starscream. You shall stay under my command—and my eye. That ends the matter." He turned definitively back to his monitor. "If you feel so underutilized," he tossed over his shoulder, "you might lower yourself to running escort for the Tunguska transports."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N I think the reason this is slow to get off the ground is that I insisted on writing an even number of Autobot as Decepticon scenes, because I was trying to resist the urge to make it all about the 'cons. So I tried to alternate sides scene by scene to make it even. That's why this seems to be moving so slowly. In the sequel, I've gotten a bit better about it. But still, Ironhide has to talk to Flareup sooner or later.

XII.

Diego Garcia

Ironhide rolled along the ring road of the island, trying not to admit to himself that he was hiding. Or running away. Only so far to run, though. So he told himself he could use a little exercise, and the island could use a little reconnaissance, and he had avoided noticing how paper thin either excuse really was.

Dark had settled over Diego Garcia. He could see the glow from the base proper in a wash of high wattage light. He thought he could recognize Sideswipe—the two arm-blades slicing the pavement in harsh contrast in the strong light as he skated up and down in front of the hangars. No doubt showing off a new move. Ironhide ached for his innocent cockiness. Behind him, to his left, the lines of the runway blinked in various bright colors. In front of him, only the darkness of the settling night, the whoosh of the waves on the shore, and the glow of his headlamps.

And his thoughts.

He accelerated, as if he could outrun those thoughts. Yeah, right. No, he was stuck with them. And his fellow Autobots were stuck with him.

A purple shape loomed up on his right. He slammed on his brakes, tires squealing on the sand-blown pavement. "Uh, sorry, Flareup," he said, his frame rocking back at the end of the forced-stop.

"Haven't seen you around much," she said, coolly. She'd slammed to a stop herself to avoid hitting him. She pushed back into robot mode.

"Yeah." He waited for her to say something. Anything. If she raged at him, he would deserve it. If she struck him, he would take it. If she cried—he didn't know what he'd do. But he wouldn't tell her to stop.

"Hiding from everybody?" she asked. Her tone was impossible to read.

"Just not going where I'm not welcome," he said.

"The way everyone makes excuses for you, that's simply not true. If anyone's not welcome right now, it's me."

"You look different, that's all." He had to admit, the two-colored eyes were…disturbing.

She bit her lip. "Since when is that supposed to matter? We judge bots by how they look, now? Or is it—or is it we judge them by where they got their parts? I'm somehow less than everyone else because I have a few Decepticon parts?" She threw her hands in the air. "I hate to remind you, Ironhide, but you have Decepticon repairs, too."

Ironhide stepped back, stung. "Yeah but…Ratchet's looked me over. Said everything was to standard."

"Of course it's to standard! You think we've been fighting this enemy for so long and they've somehow been doing it with substandard parts?"

"No, but…the important part is that he's looked me over."

"No, the important part is all of your repairs are hard to see. Internal mechanisms. Mine are surface." She moved her arms so that her armor glittered in his headlamps.

Start again. "Flareup," he pleaded. "This is not how I want this to go. I want to hear what happened."

Anger faltered on her face. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't care about the others. But," his turn to hesitate, "I really don't want you to hate me." His voice was small.

"Hate you?" she shook her head. "I have had enough of hate, honestly. There's enough of that in the world already—I'm not going to add to it." That, at least, sounded more like the Flareup he remembered. The Flareup he cared about. She was still under there—somewhere.

"Flare…I know what it looks like, what happened up there." How could he forget? Every instant of her torture was seared into his memory. And what his optics hadn't seen, a mind filled with ages of violence and warfare filled in. He remembered her looking up at him, seeing him. Her eyes locking against his. "And I know—or can guess—what you've been through. It changes you. It does. It has to." He thought back to his own combat experiences. "I just don't want you to change so much. That's all."

Her voice was soft. "Thank you."

He pushed further, taking a step closer. "It was all a set up. From the start. I swear. Barricade—"

Her voice withdrew some of its softness and warmth. "Barricade was never anything but nice to me."

"Flareup," Ironhide said. "You have to know that was all an act."

"Do I?"

"He's evil. He arranged to have you," he choked on the word, "tortured. Can't you even see that?"

"You know what I see? I see that you're so closed-minded you can't even grasp the concept that there might be one Decepticon who isn't completely horrible. And with that, I see that there's really no hope of peace, ever."

"That's crazy, Flareup. We'll get peace. Finally. Once we…."

"Once we kill all the Decepticons, right? That's what you were going to say. Once we murder everyone who is different from us." She threw her arms wide. "Well, look. I'm different from you. Start with me. Go on. Kill me."

"Flareup!" he said, his voice full of horror. But he couldn't for his spark think of anything else to say.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Okay, I suck at Autobots. Gotcher message. Best way to think of them from here on out is that they're like an alcoholic family 'round Christmas time—hell bent on keeping the illusion that no, we're really all one big happy family here. Really. See our smiles and unity? (You'll HATE Wednesday's update, btw, though it is a long one). _

_In the meantime, speaking of self-delusion. _

XIII.

**Nemesis, Intelligence Control**

Barricade grunted to himself. For about the fiftieth time—fifty-eighth, his processor corrected—he read the paragraph. If he had been following the directions, if he'd done it right, he should be able to call up the reception freq of any call. But when he put in the suspicious one, the one Soundwave had shut him down on, it spat out a string of seemingly random numbers. No one had a freq this long. Or an ident code.

"Slag," he cursed, slapping the console with impotent frustration. What was he doing wrong? He wasn't an idiot. His high cog apt scores had been what had pulled him—finally—from the tedious stress of Combat Control, in his second-chance. He'd built up an arsenal of psychological tricks and information against anyone he deemed a threat and, over megacycles, had managed to climb up the ranks to Chief Intel Officer on the Nemesis by the force of his damn processor alone. And now he was seriously supposed to believe he couldn't follow a fragged-up instruction manual!? He tried again. The same impossibly long string of numbers.

Encrypted? Slag it—Soundwave could fly circles around him in crypto. Still, he could try. He knew something. He counted up the digits, figuring if he factored them he'd get a clue. Wrong: a prime number. Maybe that itself was significant. He tried to think of factors for the entire number. Still not promising. Oh, this was useless. He didn't even know what he was looking for: an alphanumeric code? A binary? Base-eight? Parts of it, the manual told him, marked codes of communication relay points, lag boosters that sped the transmission faster-than-light. But even so, what should have been the freq code made no sense. Crypto, he thought, for about the ninetieth time in his intelligence career, sucked.

His comm buzzed. "On," he said, brusquely. Wasn't really in a chatty mood.

"Barricade," Soundwave's cold voice came over, making Barricade bolt upright in suspicion. But no, he thought. His IC console had triple redundant firewalls. He'd installed the last set himself, with a constantly cycling hack destabilizer. If Soundwave had so much as blinked seductively at his console, it would have warned him. At least. Maybe not stopped the intrusion, but it would have flagged. Frantically, he called up a shell.

"Soundwave," he said, his voice suspiciously buoyant. "How can I help you?" His shell came back empty—no incursions, or even attempts. A mass of characters at one point, but when Barricade checked the time log, that was when Blackout had plopped his giant aft on the console.

"Megatron wishes an update on your progress."

"My progress? On what?" He scrambled to think what Megatron might possibly want from him.

"The possibility of a second viable meteoric energon site." Through his stiffly neutral voice, Soundwave still managed, somehow, to sound impatient.

Slag, slag, slag! He'd forgotten all about that. "On it. Following some leads." Or I will be, as soon as you get off my fraggin' comm, he thought. Like this timing wasn't suspicious, right? He calls Soundwave out on that out-system call, and now…juuuuuuust enough time for a little confab between Megatron and Soundwave, Megatron wants an update. Did they think he went sentient yesterday?

"When do you expect your leads will yield results?"

"Soon." He felt a measure of control creep back in his voice. Soundwave, trying to game him? Not going to happen. Not even on his worst day. And this was far from his worst day. "You may tell him that I will let him know as soon as I find an actionable lead. Personally." Meaning, cut you out of the loop, Soundwave.

"I shall inform him," Soundwave said, crisply, and snapped off the comm.

Barricade smirked. Soundwave in a huff was more entertaining than he'd thought. Still, that was a warning shot right across his face. He'd better come up with something. He called up his chrono. Long night ahead. Right, what had Flareup told him? He'd been almost torn apart by distraction at that moment—so eager to get rid of her, to end this hideous chapter, to finally get some rest, some distance between the he that had done…those things…and the he that was trying to make sense of them.

And, he hated to admit, he'd been distracted by…her. A female. Even with her tedious pacifism, there had been something…something _distracting_ about her.

Oh, you are fraggin' losing it, Barricade, he snapped at himself. Only things tying you to the cycle bot are curiosity that you didn't fully examine the only female you've ever come in contact with, and regret for what you did. Mostly to yourself. You might remember whose side you're on?

That made his thoughts jump to that uncomfortable conversation with Starscream. Oh, Starscream, he thought, please, please don't be thinking of rebellion right now. Or ever. Please. But when it came right down to it, Barricade, whose side are you on? Starscream's words hissed like the human's religious serpent in his audio memory, 'Don't tell me you still believe in the Decepticon cause?' Did he?

Did he?


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N Holy crap this chapter is long. Well, for me. I kind of enjoy writing Sideswipe. I confess he might be my favorite Autobot. And he runs his mouth off—hrm, just like me. (frowny face) _

XIV

Diego Garcia

This could only be good, Sideswipe said, bouncing on his skate wheels up to the runway. Colonel Axelrod had summoned all of them—human and Cybertronian alike—to a big assembly at the end of the runway. General Morshower was going to speak. That was also a good thing: the last time the general had addressed them directly, they'd gone into a full-scale battle with the 'cons. Finally, Sideswipe thought, no more of these piddly little skirmishes. Yeah, they were fun and all, but a great final push against the enemy? What more could he ask for?

There were no briefing materials at the site, though. Weird, thought Sideswipe, but then he considered that if Soundwave could monitor satellite imagery, a big open briefing with lots of pictures and diagrams would be a dumb idea. Well, they'd probably break into teams later and get specific assignments. His enthusiasm drooped, but didn't completely fade—he wanted to jump right to the good stuff, and not have to sit through a pep talk. Now, he could give a great pep talk himself. And he could appreciate, he supposed, a good speech. But everyone had been sitting around so droopy and glum lately. He was ready to skip the pep and get right to the hitting.

"Hey!" he said, rolling past a group of the NEST soldiers. A few grunted half-heartedly back at him. Huh, Sideswipe thought. The mood kill has been hitting them, too. What we really need to cheer everyone up is a good battle. Something we can all get behind, like slapping some 'con skidplate.

He scanned the audience as he joined the group: Ratchet looked cranky, but that's pretty usual; Optimus looked…well, blank really; Arcee and Chromia bunched together like they were too caught up in some girly drama to even notice they were about to get a good battle; Ironhide looked miserable, which puzzled Sidewsipe until he realized the bot still didn't have his pulse cannons back—that would be enough to depress any bot; and Cliffjumper? Well, Cliffjumper looked tense.

Sideswipe didn't like that. Cliffjumper was normally his buddy, his partner in heroism. They had similar attitudes toward the fight, even though their styles were different. Scratch that: Sideswipe had style, Cliffjumper had none. Still a difference, though. And Cliffjumper was always, he admitted, a bit more clued into the big picture. Had to be, for being one of the smaller bots. Had to grab advantage where he could.

He rolled up to an open spot, right next to Flareup. He hesitated, but no one would ever say Sideswipe feared anything, especially not a cycle bot. "Hey, Flare," he said, "Mind if I'm here?"

"Of course not," she said.

"Thanks," he said. He reached for something to say, stopped himself. Last time, Sides, he told himself, didn't go so hot. "Uhhh," he finally said, "You know what this is about?"

She shot him a look that appeared almost irritated for a moment. Then her face softened. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Nope," he said, cheerfully. Hopeless idiot was a role he would gladly play, if it meant Flare wouldn't get mad at him again. The Autobots should be a team, which meant everyone should get a long. All that infighting and drama was sooooooo for the Decepticons. Which is why they were bad. And needed to have their crankcases ripped out.

Flareup's voice was low. "When we were captives of the Decepticons, Ironhide said some pretty nasty stuff about the humans. And now the humans are upset about it."

Sideswipe laughed. "Are you kidding me? 'Hide says nasty stuff about everyone. All the time. These people need to learn to let it roooooooll off the back, you know?" He caught some strange and dark looks from the NEST team, standing at parade rest in formation. He shut up. They couldn't be serious. No one took Ironhide's temper seriously. Oh, you took it seriously in that you got the frag out of his way, but you didn't actually listen to what he said! Sideswipe looked back, trying to spot Ironhide. The older mech hung on the fringes of the Autobots, head down. His arms looked scrawny and bare without the cannons. That, more than anything else, made Sideswipe sad.

A bustle at the podium, and Sideswipe recognized General Morshower and the base commander Colonel Axelrod. Oh good. This will pick things up, he thought.

The general cleared his throat noisily. "Gentlemen," he said, nodding at the stiff, square formation of NEST soldiers, and acknowledged the Autobots with a wordless nod. "I wouldn't call you here to waste your time. I trust you all know that. There have been several meetings at very high levels to discuss, erm, recent events. VERY high levels." He cleared his throat again. His eyes found Ironhide's, then Optimus's gaze. "The situation has caused us to, ahem, to re-evaluate our priorities and, errraaaggh," he coughed loudly, "our recent alliances. Particular concern has been paid to a certain new realization of the Autobot's global capabilities." An awkward shuffle of feet. Colonel Axelrod's eyes were hard on Ironhide.

"What's he mean?" Sideswipe whispered to Flareup.

"He said that we could destroy the planet if we wanted."

"Huh? Is that all? It's true." He shot another look at the humans. Did that kind of stuff upset them? Only made sense if they ever bothered to think about it. Natural that the Autobots' weapons were capable of the big damage. And they should see what the 'cons could do if they wanted.

General Morshower shook his head. "We have gotten word from…ummm, our superiors. I'm sure many of you will find this unfortu—unfortunate, but as of today, the NEST team has been ordered to stand down." He turned to the soldiers. "Your various governments thank you for your service and each of you will receive the personal gratitude of the President of the United States. You have all been granted thirty days of leave, effective at 1800 this evening." He turned to the Autobots. "This base will be closing down. You will be given thirty days to utilize the base, including Air Force assets at your discretion, out of gratitude for the service you have accomplished for the United States government. After that, our alliance is over." He coughed.

Sideswipe was stunned. At least the general had the good sense to look embarrassed. This was ridiculous. The alliance over? The 'cons would destroy them! And over a stupid comment?

"Frag me," he breathed. He looked down at Flareup. She looked…worried.

"But the Decepticons are still out there!" one of the humans burst out. Sideswipe recognized Captain Lennox's voice. "We need the Autobots to fight them."

The general shook his head. "It has, erm, has long been suspected that the only reason the Decepticons are still here—now that they have their leader and the, uh, the cube they were after was destroyed—is the presence of the Autobots themselves." He coughed. Either he was coming down with something, Sideswipe thought, or he really wasn't cool with what he was saying. "My superiors suggest that, uh, if the Autobots located to off planet—say the Moon, or farther—the Decepticons would leave."

"You're going to put this whole thing on that speculation and an insult?" Sideswipe burst out. "The 'cons won't stop till they've destroyed everything."

"We have no proof of that," Colonel Axelrod stepped up to the podium, smoothly. He seemed way more on board with this base closure than Morshower. Even though it meant he'd be out of a job. "In fact, if we do statistical analyses of the encounters we've had, neither strategically nor tactically do the Decepticons seem bent on world domination. They come with a targeted mission, execute that mission, and then leave. They most certainly do not 'destroy everything'." He glared meaningfully at Sideswipe. Sideswipe's 'collateral damage' problem was notorious. Well, can't fight a 'con without breaking a few buildings, that's how it's done.

"Is this guy serious?" Sideswipe asked Flareup.

She nodded. "Maybe he's not all wrong. Maybe they will just leave. They aren't as evil as everyone thinks."

It was his turn to give the shocked look to Flareup. "Not evil? Flare, they—"

"Do not start that again," she hissed, turning showily back to the stage.

"In fact," Axelrod continued, implacable, "when faced with human assault teams, many times, the Decepticons will not even engage. In other words, it's you they're after."

"Oh, like Qatar. Yeah, sure didn't engage us there." one of the NEST team said, bitterly. Axelrod turned to the speaker.

"Master Sergeant, you are living proof. You were how close to that Decepticon helicopter? Did he shoot at you?" He altered his gaze to take in the rest of the soldiers. "At Qatar, the Decepticon called Blackout did not engage until he had been engaged first. And his actions can all be categorized as suppressive fire."

"Categorize him as glitchin' crazy," Sideswipe muttered to Flareup. She kept a stony silence.

The Colonel aimed his glare at Prime. "Moreover when they do engage with human forces, they only do so with the forces of countries allied to the…" he paused for dramatic effect, "Autobots."

Morshower stepped back up. "What he means is, that, erm, it has been proposed that alliance with the Autobots is a liability."

Sideswipe looked back at Optimus. What was he thinking of this just ridiculous stuff? He realized they were all looking at Optimus. And Optimus was looking from them, to the NEST team.

"Yes," Optimus finally said. "We see your point. We shall remove ourselves from this base within thirty days."

Sideswipe was stunned. Where was Optimus's leadership? He should have stood up to those stupid humans. "Come on, Optimus!" he said. "You can't be serious! You're really going to listen to a bunch of squishy little things with bits of ribbon on them?"

Flareup grabbed his arm. "Not helping," she said.

He shook her off. "Come on, everyone! Let's be serious. You've all turned your backs on Ironhide. He's one of us. We stick together. That's the Autobot way. And," he said, warming to his theme, "we fight Decepticons. That's what we do. We don't need their help or their permission," he gestured behind him to the stage, "we did just fine on Cybertron."

"I thought Cybertron was dying, due to your…overzealous warfare," Axelrod cut in.

"And our inability to listen to each other," Flareup said, under her breath.

"That was their fault! The Decepticons ruined Cybertron. And now they're going to ruin Earth!"

"Fighting you."

"Yeah! Fighting us." He didn't hear the sudden inrush of air from the others. He only saw the stricken look on Prime's face, Ironhide's lowered head. Somehow, he got the distinct sensation he'd just made things worse.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I always like to end a week with a little Starscream. :P _

XV.

Tunguska LZ

"How these Earth creatures find all of this…nature," Starscream spat, with distaste, "admirable, I shall never comprehend." Even before the area had been honeycombed by paths made by drones digging up chunks of the crystallized energon, it had been unpromising enough—the sky a flat lead-white, the trees a despairing shade of brown, sparsely leaved even in late summer. As though summer never really came here. Even the ground was ugly—greyish-yellow muck that felt chalky-gooshy underfoot, and threatened treacherous slips at nearly every step. A thick clotty fog hung close to the ground making everything feel wet and look dirty.

"Not something I waste my time with," Blackout said. He hunched in his copter mode, half loaded already with his next batch of crystal chunks. An unsteady stream of drones trickled up to his open doors as soon as each drone found a good piece. They moved with a speed and brightness that showed they were advancing farther along the long slow road to sentience, chirruping to each other and themselves, the very picture of content.

Starscream was the absolute contrast: sentient, enormous compared to them, and utterly miserable. Blackout knew better than to ask what gave he and Vortex the incredibly dubious pleasure of Starscream's company just now. And he hated to admit that the jet's presence was a relief. He'd already chased off two full wings of the Sukhoi fighter jets all by himself, leaving Blackout and Vortex and the ground teams to do their transport job in peace. And he'd gone after the Soviet jets with an aggression that told enough of the story for Blackout to puzzle out. Another punishment mission for the jet. It was as if Megatron would never stop punishing him. He wondered how, why, the jet took it.

Starscream paced the perimeter of the LZ, cursing as one of his smallish feet slipped in the muck. "I hate this place!" he spat with more venom than the situation really required. Hard to tell if he meant Tunguska or the entire Earth. Blackout wasn't about to underestimate the jet's capacity for hatred.

Blackout struggled for something defusing to say. "Thanks, Starscream."

"For what?" the jet whirled around to face him, his eyes narrowed in fury. Blackout rocked against his groundwheels.

"I mean thanks for running interference for us. Those fighters are annoying, especially at full capacity."

"It is," Starscream snarled, "apparently the one thing I am good for."

Blackout hesitated. Starscream's moods had always been a bit notorious, but lately, really, since Megatron's return, Starscream had been flying on a downward spiral. At top speed. "Yeah," he said, carefully. "You can do this in your sleep. Still, appreciate it."

Some of the tension left the jet's shoulder mounts. "You are welcome," he said, stiffly, awkwardly. Hunh, Blackout thought: Barricade was right. When in doubt and confronted by large angry Seeker, praise him. Looks like it worked. He watched as the jet struggled to find something to say. Finally, Starscream managed, "I suppose this is boring for you, as well."

"Not exactly a gold-star day in my personal log," Blackout admitted. "But getting this energon is important."

"I suppose." Starscream turned his head, absently scanning the sky. Not ignoring you, Blackout, the copter told himself. Doing his job. And apparently something else. "What, Blackout…what do you think we should use all of this energon for?" Blackout got the distinct sense that this wasn't a casual speculation. Not that Starscream ever went for that anyway.

"I'm going to have to say, ummm, energy?" He wasn't going to answer unless he had a clue what this was about. He wished Barricade were here. Barricade could see through just about anyone.

"I am overwhelmed by your wit," the jet said, flatly. "Energy to do what?"

"Not sure what you're asking."

Starscream sighed, looking down at Blackout. "Never mind."

Blackout cursed, inwardly. He'd blown something—he knew that much. "Pretty sure Megatron has some plans for it," he said, trying to get things back on track.

Another sigh, somehow angry this time. "Yes, I suppose he does."

"You know what it is?" Trying to fish for information. Damn. He really wished Barricade were here. He'd run the whole thing past him next time he went skyside. At least figure out what the frag he'd done wrong.

The tension snapped back into the jet's shoulder gyros. "No, I am not privileged enough to know his almighty plans," he said bitterly. "Which is why I am down here. Partly."

Frag it all! He was definitely going to talk to Barricade about this. The Seeker clearly wanted to talk to someone. But Blackout knew that picking, well, Blackout, was a terrible choice. He wasn't a very wordsy bot. He did what he did best—stayed quiet. The jet looked back at him, expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

"Starscream," Blackout began, stalling. Change of plan: he'd get Starscream to talk directly to Barricade—no way Blackout could manage this himself without fragging it up completely. The jet silenced him, suddenly, with a sharp wave of one hand, his head snapping up to the sky.

"Visitors," Starscream muttered. He fired his jets, spinning himself up into the sky.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N Little bit of Ironhide backstory going on here. Speaking of, I've got a oneshot on Ironhide here going up in Echoes some time this week. Soon as I'm sure it doesn't suck. _

XVI.

Diego Garcia

When they had to, the humans could move plenty fast. Within a few cycles of General Morshower's announcement, Diego Garcia was already starting to look barren. Gutted. Flights—large C-130s—had been going all day, and there was still a backlog of men and equipment and vehicles waiting on the greenramp. Ironhide watched from a distance, miserable, hunched in the stark dark shadow of midafternoon between two of the support buildings. He had cut away from both bodies after the dismissal, not wanting to be in either side's targeting grid. It hurt. Not just that it was all his fault, though that caused an ache in his spark nearly as painful as his total failure with Flareup. But it hurt more than he'd thought watching the humans leave. Even from this distance, he could recognize some of them by shape or gesture. That—that was De Guardia—who else moved his hands so much when he talked? That was Epps over there, staring moodily back at the hangars. MacCallum, hanging between two crutches, his rucksack hunched over his back like a turtle shell.

Ironhide would…miss them. He hadn't lied—combat would have gone a lot smoother if he'd not had to worry about not stepping on them, and having to keep them around as a humanitarian cover story got a little tedious—but he enjoyed them. As personalities. He liked MacCallum's weird sense of humor. Epps's loyalty and commitment. Lennox's struggle to balance his devotion to duty with that to his family. Things he could see and admire and recognize, as a warrior. They were good warriors—he wasn't going to fault them that. They just weren't in the same class. No shame in it really. For their size and, well, frailty, they did pretty well for themselves.

"Here's where you're hiding."

Ironhide flinched. He pushed back from his vehicle mode and turned. "What do you want, Sideswipe?" he said, churlishly.

"Came looking for you," the other bot said, smiling brightly. That idiot smile he overused. Still, it had an infectious kind of charm.

"Joining the outcasts?" Sideswipe hadn't exactly…helped back there. "They boot you out, too?"

Sideswipe leaned against the building. "No way. Bot not constructed yet that can boot Sideswipe outta anywhere." He winked. "Came to get you."

"Get me?"

"Yeah. This moping thing, mech, it's got to go. Not like you killed anyone." The corners of Sideswipe's mouth flickered down as he remembered…. He shook his head and shrugged simultaneously, trying to clear himself of a memory. "YOU didn't kill anyone, so, whatever. Come on. You're going to have to do it sooner or later."

Good point, but…right now? "Maybe later."

Sideswipe narrowed one eye in a parody of a suspicious glare. "Your agenda too full?"

Despite himself, Ironhide cracked a grin. Not a prize-winning one, but it was, perhaps, a start. "Yeah. I've got the afternoon for self-pity, and this evening I'm going to highlight reel all of the stupid things I've ever said in my life…"

"Gonna be a long night for ya, then?" Sideswipe grinned. "Hide, seriously." His face lost its cheeky grin. "We all make mistakes. We all say dumb things. I'm the King of Saying Dumb Things. When I die—gloriously in battle, of course—that's how they're gonna remember me: Sideswipe: he kicked ass and said stupid shit."

True. "What's your point?"

"Come on, mech! You don't see me crawling off in a corner for a pity party, do you? I get over it. Everyone says dumb things, I figure. Just my turn every now and again." His eyes started to glow with that look Ironhide remembered, all too unfortunately, as Sideswipe's 'pep talk' look. "You know what I do when I get upset like that, Hide?" he said, slyly, "I take it out on…the enemy!" He said the last as though it were a revelation.

Ironhide hated to cut him down. Primus bless the well-meaning moron for trying, at least. "One problem with that," he said, holding up his naked forearms. The empty mounting brackets told their own story so plainly even Sideswipe figured it out.

"Oh," he said, flagging for a moment. "Well, anyway, you can still come hang out with us. I meant what I said: We're Autobots. We stick together."

"You're an Autobot," Ironhide said, sadly.

"Aww come on," Sideswipe looked uncomfortable, sensing he was out of his league in cheering-up abilities. He was starting to feel like he was really, really losing his touch. "You think we're going to vote you out or something?"

"Wish it were that easy," Ironhide said. "Don't remember, do you? I started out as…one of them."

Sideswipe was stunned into silence for a moment. "Yeah, but…," he foundered along, "well, we all came from some place," he said, lamely. "And besides, who the hell remembers back that far anyway?"

Ironhide's gaze hardened. "I do."


	17. Chapter 17

XVII.

Nemesis

Barricade half-heartedly sent one of his intel search programs to search for the only lead he had—that the extraterrestrial energon source was a green stone. Probably a useless tip from the cycle bot—he wondered how much such an admission had cost her. Sign, he told himself, that you did your job right. Sign that that one, that part, you didn't slag up. Still, the clue probably went nowhere. Green. Great. That narrows it down a lot.

Still, he sent the search on its way through the human databases—might as well start with the ones who should know their own bloody planet, right?—and hit up the main console to work on the decrypt again. It'd never work, this stupid search, but it was something he had to clear. The first step. And he might as well get it out of the way. He turned his attention back to the decrypt. It had to be working. That ridiculous string of numbers had to be the right answer. Or the right answer had to be in there, somewhere. He stared at it for a long time.

No, genius. Running silence doesn't work on numbers. Can stare at them all day and they're not going to blink, much less blab their deepest and darkest to you. And before you even think it, slapping won't work either. Oh, this was just completely out of his skill set.

He hated admitting that, even to himself. No, he said, firmly. I can figure this out. I can do this. I just…need a break from it right now.

He called up the search. It was still in process, but fed him some of the highest matches. "Emeralds are forever," read one article. No. Stupid jewelry store. What was with these humans and wearing rocks, anyway? Well, anything that stood between their disgusting nakedness and his optics, Barricade was all for.

The next was about 'green coal', which as it turned out when he called up the article, was not green at all. Green meant something other than a color to these humans? No wonder Starscream had been crabby after they brought him back from the humans. Four solars. The horror.

The third title, he didn't even understand. Which rubbed on his already irritated ego. "The Holy Grail of Clean Energy" it read. No 'green' in the title. No 'stone'. This was…disappointing. Already the search was that low on good matches?

He called it up, idly. If nothing else, he'd find out what a 'holy grail' was. It sounded obscene. He hoped it was. He skimmed the abstract, all four of his eyes spiralling as he read. This was it. No. No. It couldn't be this easy. The first flimsy search he did, results? This never happened to him. He'd always had to work so much harder for anything. He'd just done the search just to cover the obvious bases. But…it was all here—meteoric stone. Green, as in the actual color. Possibility of energy extraction? He called up the full article—a slight hang as his system had to fox a firewall. That was weird: academic sources didn't normally firewall like this. He felt something almost like electricity in his power core. Too easy. Too easy. Yet…here it was.

Here it wasn't. He almost felt a sense of relief as the full text scrolled under his optics and … it turned out almost woefully incomplete. 'Preliminary findings.' 'More research needed.' He was torn between relief and regret—would have been nice to throw something at Megatron this early—but before he could decide whether regret was winning out over relief, his comm buzzed.

"On," he said.

"Need your advice on something," Blackout's voice came over on subvoc.

"You don't owe me enough already for setting me up about the jet?"

"Come on, you needed that."

"Oh yeah, me and my superfluity of ego. We needed a good trim."

"Gather he still isn't talking to you."

"How'd you figure that out, supersleuth?"

"Uhhhh, 'cause he comm'd me to comm you?"

"Oh, that's mature." Barricade said dryly.

"It's Starscream." True enough.

Barricade grunted acknowledgement. The Seeker wasn't known for his social skills. Not that Barricade was, but at least he followed chain of command. Well, when it suited him. "I suppose the sunshine you're going to shine on this is that at least he thinks I should be brought on board whatever catastrophe you've got stewing down there? The Three Musketeers of idiocy?" More likely, he was trying to get Barricade's imprimatur on some idiot scheme, banking on Barricade's current good-favor with Megatron. Not an awful lot to count on. Barricade himself wasn't betting too much on that.

"It'd sure turn out that way if you don't get down here and help."

"Get down there? What the hell you need me for? Picking rocks and blowing up jets? Neither really my forte."

"Got something that is yours. Russians are here. They want to negotiate."

Barricade logged out of IC systems. All this stuff could wait. Would have to wait. "Do not," he hissed, "let that fraggin' jet open his mouth until I get there."


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N (Insert something witty here). Sorry. Bad week—one of those existential gut checks where you look at where you are in life and compare it to where you thought you'd be, and…. _

XVIII.

Diego Garcia

Fine, Ratchet had agreed, finally, I'll talk to her. He hadn't counted on how hard it would be to find her. Oh, she was certainly conspicuous enough, with her brightly painted armor, and the noticeable space everyone made for her, as though her Decepticon parts were somehow contagious. But she seemed to have developed some sort of sixth sense specifically coded to locating where the medic was and avoiding him, assiduously.

He'd resorted to an old trick, invoking Prime's authority for an all-hands depth maintenance. Prime had agreed to the notion, as something to get the others occupied and moving and in shape while they still had facilities. Ratchet hadn't told him about the Flareup part of it. Better he not know. Not that he'd object, but Prime didn't like anything that smelled even the least underhanded.

Each of the Autobots had been issued a number and a time to visit Ratchet in his repair bay in Delta 1. He'd set Flareup about 2/3 of the way through, completely separate from her sisters. He didn't want her to sense a set up. She'd still come—she'd have to—but she'd come with her guard up. More up than it would be already.

Don't know why they picked me, Ratchet griped. Not the best guy at this kind of thing. Can put a bot together from a box of assorted parts. But the spark? The spirit? I have nothing to do with that. I can't help that at all.

Flareup rolled in, precisely on time. She rolled up to the repair frame without more than a polite nod at Ratchet.

"Flareup, how are you doing?" he began. That sounded benign, no?

"Doing fine." Nope. She was already on her guard. "But I suppose you're going to check me anyway."

"Have to check everyone." It wasn't hard not to sound thrilled about it. He'd seen so many servos and pistons and slightly stiff joints in the last cycles to haunt his dreams for solars. He gestured her to lean back against the frame, tilting it back until it took her weight off the ground. "You okay with this?" he asked.

"With what? You checking me out? Not really."

"I meant the frame. I don't want you to feel helpless. You know, if this is how they…did it to you."

Her red eye seemed to glare at him. "Actually, they have net cradles in their repair bays. Not like this at all."

He let the sting slide off. "Can I ask the extent of your injuries?"

She sighed, impatient. "You can see the eye and the armor. Had a few of the plates ripped off," she waited while he winced. "A finger broken, a lubricant line bitten through—"

"Bitten through?" He couldn't keep the horror from his voice. What had they done to her? Why was she able to say it so calmly?

"Bitten through. Some bite damage to a tire—they didn't have a match so they had to patch it." She spun her hand tire, showing him a slightly darker area of the surface. "And probably some other stuff. After a while I offlined."

"Flareup," he said, putting a hand on hers. He couldn't even think of what to say. The injuries she described were terrifying. But her delivery was so…flat. Like she was just reading off a list.

She continued, turning to expose part of her neck to him. "They decided it was better to pull and replace the whole lubricant line than just patch it."

"They?"

"Repair bots. Barely sentient, little things. Actually kind of cute."

"Cute? They're Decepticons!"

"They don't know any better. And besides, all they do is repair. And you can see, they did a pretty good job." He had to admit, the lubricant line looked solid enough. "So, Chromia tell you to check me for bombs and other little surprises?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable. "In a way."

She smiled, a little sadly. "Go ahead. I'm tired of fighting with her. Maybe if she hears it from you…."

Well, it was permission. He picked up a field scanner and began examining her. "Which plates?" She indicated which ones had been removed. He couldn't sense any damage, not even in the connective cilia. He grunted. Made sense, as bad as those 'cons got fragged up that they must have some decent repair facilities. Surprised that they'd dragged them all out for Flareup. And Ironhide, too. He'd come through with some parts only primered, but he'd also been functional. Once Ratchet had removed the mobility locks in his legs. He thought of Starscream, and how he'd been merely stabilized and disarmed, with a sick pang. It had made sense at the time—too busy, too many of our mechs needing his actual attention. Working round the clock to patch up Autobots—running on nearly empty just to supervise the disarming of the Decepticon. And it had been hard to go from the damage the jet had inflicted on others, and the jet himself, and feel anything like sympathy.

"Weapons?"

"They disabled the energon blade. It made sense."

"You'd've been able to fight back."

"He didn't use anything on me other than his hands. And teeth." Her mouth pinched a bit at the memory. Couldn't even take it even odds.

"Flareup, can I ask a question? You don't have to answer."

"Sure," she said. "As long as you don't start telling me what to do."

"Lot of bots, if they'd been through what you described, wouldn't be…this calm about it. Are you having bad dreams or flashbacks or anything like that? Anything I can help you with?" He could disable a few of the cortex connectors for a while, until she had had time to process it. Least he could do.

He hated saying that. Maybe 'least she'd let him do.'

"I'm fine, Ratchet," she said. "I had plenty of time to talk through it in their repair bay."

"Talk through it? With these non-sentient bots?"

"With Barricade."

His lubricant ran cold. "Barricade?" He tried to keep his voice neutral. He knew the 'con's reputation back from Cybertron. When Flareup had been doing…what? Refugee work? Must have been. How else would she not remember. "What did he say?"

"Mostly he just let me talk about it until I was tired of talking. Kept asking me how I felt, where I felt." Probably, Ratchet thought, to file it away to enjoy later, the sick bastard. "Told me about their warrior tempering a bit."

"What's that?" Starscream had mentioned that, too, he seemed to remember. But Ratchet had had other things on his mind at the time. Like the damage his 'warriors' had inflicted. Like keeping bots stabilized until the CR was cleared for them.

"This thing that they do to their warriors. It's like this big ritual. They learn to get used to pain, to process it, I think, in a different way."

Ratchet grunted. He'd heard about some humans—the Native American Apaches, for example—who had something similar. Claimed that they had spiritual visions as a result. Probably overprocessing hallucinations, nothing more. He finished his sweep with the field scanner. Opened up a log of her parts and their tolerances, and began placing pads to run conductivity tests.

"And the point of this lesson?"

"Just that if I thought about what had happened that way instead of being a victim of torture, it might help. It does help," she said, confidently.

"It doesn't change what they did." He hit the conductivity test. Her new armor pieces reacted differently than the rest. Still within tolerances, but…different.

"It changes my reaction. That doesn't matter? Ratchet, in life, all you have control of is your reaction."

"Sometimes not."

"That's an excuse. Look: something bad happens. We can choose to live in hate. In which case, our course is war. Or we can try to choose another way. That's all I'm saying." She looked down over her body on the repair frame. "I'm not explaining this well."

"This something Barricade told you, too?" Hard to keep the acid out of his voice. Did she not realize that the damn 'con had just been toying with her?

"No, actually. That's mine." Her eyes spiralled down. "I am sorry that you can't see the difference. Seems no one can."


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Yeah even I think this chapter is too short. So…have two. _

XIX.

Synchronous Earth Orbit

"Contact him again," Megatron said, stiffly. Soundwave could hear the tension in his voice.

"If he is en route," Soundwave said, blandly, "locating him may be difficult."

"Are you saying you cannot do it?" A steely hint of a challenge.

"Not at all, my Lord. Just that it may take some time to calculate the correct vector and compensate for the time shift." Soundwave sent a few radar hits, to verify his current bearings. In fixed Earth orbit, he'd lost the direct vector to the far quarter of space they'd contacted last time. He'd need to move to clear interference.

"He was told to travel by space bridge." Megatron sounded angry.

"You know how his kind are," Soundwave said, blandly.

"Surely not stupid enough to ignore a direct order."

"Surely not," Soundwave said, diplomatically. Though it wouldn't surprise him at all. "But while in bridge transit he will be unreachable."

"Find him for me, Soundwave," Megatron said. "And when you do, verify that he has not contacted…." His voice trailed off.

"Certainly, my Lord." Soundwave knew whom Megatron meant. And that he found saying the name distasteful. "Shall I relay a message to him?"

A moment's pause. "No. I shall speak to him myself."

Soundwave frowned. "Yes, my Lord."

"Contact me when you get him." Without waiting for a reply, Megatron cut the comm.

Soundwave hit his booster jets, to align as clear a vector as he could to the distant nebula. Sometimes, being the only one Megatron trusted was a burden, he thought.

If, the thought came suddenly and cold as space itself, Megatron actually trusted him.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Much better. Cliffjumper takes control. And we get answers!_

XX.

Diego Garcia, Hangar Alpha 1

Cliffjumper didn't see Sideswipe anywhere in the throng that was crowding around Prime. Just as well. He'd have to have a word. Or three. Or a fist or two, with him later. Sides meant well, but…whenever he clicked on his vocalizer, things just had a way of…coming out wrong. Cliffjumper had gotten used to the fact that when working with Sideswipe, you simply needed a Sideswipe-to-tactful translation protocol.

The gist of the crowd was evenly split between a kind of Sideswipean outrage—how dare you kowtow to the humans—and a more generalized worry—what will happen now? Everyone seemed to be trying to talk at once, and to everyone else. Time, Cliffjumper thought, for leadership. HIS kind of leadership.

"HEY!" he bellowed, loud enough that he felt the floor shake under him. He raised his weapon at the ceiling menacingly. Something in the tone of his voice got attention—the crowd subsided. "One at a time, please. Me first." He looked around, challenging anyone to contradict him. All he had to do now was ask the right questions in the right order.

"Prime, we just want answers," he said. "First, why agree to leave?"

It might have been Cliffjumper's imagination, but Prime looked a little relieved at the slight return to law and order. And a chance to state his mind. "Cliffjumper," he said, in his most soothing tone, "We really had no choice. We are here only on the humans' sufferance. We need their assistance."

Voices boiled at this, which Optimus tried to quell by a hand gesture. "Ehhhhhhh," Cliffjumper snarled at them. "Let him finish." The voices died down. Sometimes politeness didn't work.

Prime nodded—definitely grateful this time. Huh, Cliffjumper thought. Power of diplomacy. Didn't know I had that in my skill set. "This is more than merely fighting the Decepticons. It is true that," he dropped his voice as though this were an uncomfortable thing to admit, "we can fight them without the assistance of the humans. But we want more than that, don't we?" Prime looked around, his blue eyes seeking out each pair of optics in the crowd. "Don't we want to imagine a life after the war? Living in peace? Where we don't have to hide?" A few murmurs of assent. Many of the Autobots had more or less fallen in love with Earth. It wasn't Cybertron, not by a long shot. But it had its own kind of rustic charm. Cliffjumper considered himself in that group. Earth would be a great place to stay. But it would, Prime was right, be less great if the humans hated their guts.

"I know that this is difficult for all of us to bear. And I thank you for trusting my leadership so far. I have, you know, the best interests of Earth and our kind at stake." One mumbled disagreement, but Cliffjumper couldn't tell who it came from.

"So what's the plan?" Enough speechifyin'. Cliffjumper wanted to do something. They'd all be better if they were doing, instead of sitting around gabbling.

"We have," Prime said, "thirty days remaining—they do not start the countdown until tomorrow: I have asked. Until that time we have entire use of the facilities here, including air support. We are allowed to call upon the Air Force for any transport needs—to relocate to a new location or to engage the enemy. I suggest we do both. We need to find some place to stay that will accept us. Perhaps not take us into the kind of helpful alliance we'd like, but allow us to at least live in peace and stability." A frown—the first sign anyone had seen on Prime's face that he felt a little…betrayed by the way the US had turned their backs.

"But we should also, I think, keep up our attacks on the enemy. If we show them an opportunity now, when we don't know what they've got planned—"

"We know they've got something planned," Cliffjumper gave himself the right to cut in.

Prime nodded. "We strongly suspect that they have a plan. We know that the attacks will continue."

"Why don't we just kick back and let the slaggin' humans get their asses kicked til they come begging for our help?" Sideswipe stood in the door of the hangar, towing Ironhide with him. Ironhide stared stolidly at the floor.

"That is not our way," Prime replied. "As Ratchet has recently reminded me," he nodded at the yellow bot who leaned against the wall, arms folded, "the way to win this war—the war and not merely any one skirmish—is not to become more like the enemy." Ironhide's head sunk lower.

"'Kay," Sideswipe said, unhappy. "If we're going to fight 'cons, count me in. But I ain't fighting without Ironhide." He put a hand on the larger bot's shoulder. Ironhide tried to shake it off.

"I'm with him," Cliffjumper said. "Maybe there was a point in keeping 'Hide out of action for a while. Not anymore. And we need him." And, by the look of it, Ironhide really needed someone to need or at least want him around right about now. Ironhide looked up at him. Cliffjumper gave a gruff nod.

"Yes," Prime said. "Ironhide, I regret that it was…necessary. It no longer is. Please accept my apology."

Ironhide's feet scraped the concrete. All eyes bore down on him, a sea of Autobot blue. And one, single, Decepticon red. "Yeah," he muttered. "No big deal." Until, he thought, the next time I am a liability. He looked down at his forearms and sighed.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: I confess this (and the last two chapters) is one of my favorite parts. _

XXI

**Tunguska**

The humans had an expression about not being able to trust someone as far as you could throw them. Looking down at his human counterpart, Barricade mused that he could probably throw him plenty far. Trusted Pyotr Alexeievitch Suvorov much less, by any conversion. He wondered if he'd misheard, and the expression was 'don't trust him as far as he can throw me.'

The human might not have been able to shift even a small bot like Barricade by an inch, but he was determined to try his hard-headed best.

"We hope," he was saying with a slightly oily smile, "you can see the benefits of allying with us."

"Excuse me if I don't, immediately," Barricade said. Nice was going to get him walked all over, here. "How 'bout you spell them out for me." He was vaguely amused that the Russian negotiator spoke to him in English. He decided to keep it going. Never know when it would come in handy that they DIDN'T know he could understand that savage garble of syllables they called the Russian language.

Pyotr (he had insisted Barricade call him that, even as he insisted on pronouncing Barricade's name as 'Bo-ree-cod') tilted his head, just sliiiiiightly patronizing. "We have natural resources, which you obviously need."

"Which we seem to be taking, quite handily," Barricade gestured over the hill to the LZ where Vortex had swapped out with Blackout as the loading copter. "Not sure why we need give anything to you."

"Oh, come now. Surely you need a base, no? Tedious, and costly, dropping down from…wherever it is you say your ship is." His eyes got sly.

Thought of that all by yourself, have you? "Can't put a price on security," Barricade said, blandly.

Pyotr gave a well-staged, showy laugh. "True, my friend. But who would be rash enough to threaten your security?"

Barricade let the question hang in the air between them. Who'd been sending the fighter jets that Starscream had been intercepting all afternoon? He added, "Could ask you the same."

Another showy laugh. "We know well this feeling of security, here, Barricade." The bot grunted, non-committal. "That is why we should ally. Neither of us has anything to fear from anyone else…."

"Except each other?" Barricade finished for him. He spun his wheel into its slicing-blade mode, idly. Actions, the humans said also, speak louder than words. He looked over at Pyotr. "Sorry," he said, "Do this when I get bored." The human's face went through about thirty different expressions as he tried to master his response: annoyance, fear, worry, anger, finally subsiding to bland.

"I am sorry that you are bored with our discussion," Pyotr said, tightly.

"No big deal. I get bored a lot. Short attention span. You were saying?" Proved your point, Barricade. Put it away. He spun the blades back into their tire.

"I was saying," Pyotr said, his eyes narrowed, "that an alliance between us would be advantageous for you."

"Right!" Barricade said, brightly. "And I was saying that it really wasn't all that great for us, but was wondering what was in it for you. Because, I have to say, we wouldn't ally ourselves with anyone who doesn't feel a real…need for the commitment." He flashed a smile. He knew his facial structure was somewhere in the 'terrifying' to 'hideous' range, and this time he intended to make use of its peculiar charm.

Pyotr's face took on a look of real respect. Grudging respect, but real. Had he thought that because he was talking to robots this would be easy for him? Fleshling, Barricade thought, I've been messing with minds before your ancestors grew legs. "Yes, of course," he said, smoothly. Couldn't hide from Barricade the fact that under the smooth voice, he was grabbing for control. Only knew that by feeling it yourself at some point. "It is true," he said, opening his hands in a gesture of submission, as though Barricade had really wrested something from him, "that we would gain from your partnership."

"And what is it you would gain, exactly?" Something wonderfully effective in making the enemy spell out his stupidity.

"My friend, we have similar political aims."

"Bzzzzzz. Wrong. Human, we have no political aims." None that pertained to or required collaboration with humans, at any rate. He enjoyed the slight snarl that flashed across Suvorov's face.

Pyotr tried again, forcing a jovial laugh. "My friend, you are right. I concede defeat. We do seek something: an alliance with you would give us access, we would hope, to some of your technological…advancements." Meaning: weapons. Barricade grunted. "You know that our chief rivals, the Americans, have had access to the technology and aid of your Autobot enemies."

Ah, playing the good old 'enemy of my enemy' line. Still, it wasn't a cliché for no reason. "I thought you had no enemies."

"A…mistranslation, perhaps." Right. Blame the translation. "Anyone, anything, any institution that suffers from success also suffers from a surplus of enemies. It is simply a matter of which enemies are actually fear-worthy. The Americans were not, but with the aid from their Autobot allies…." He threw his hands open again.

This made sense—well, minus all the overblown 'we fear no one' rhetoric. The Soviets hadn't even been invited to the alliance party. They'd been left out of the loop for years now. Probably figured that in the interim the Autobots had handed the Americans a half-dozen different doomsday devices. Barricade knew better. He'd studied the Autobots long enough to know that their principles wouldn't allow them to up-armor even a bosom ally. Some stupid 'balance of power' 'prime directive' nonsense from the dusty ancient times of the High Council. Ironically, exactly that sort of thinking had created the warrior class in the first place. Had created the Decepticons, if you thought about it.

To be honest, Barricade wasn't inclined to hand over the keys to the armory himself. A weapon the humans could use against other humans could very easily be used against the Decepticons themselves. And Barricade hadn't gotten where he was by handing anyone a weapon, loaded, safety-off. Especially not the Russians.

Pyotr waited patiently for an answer.

"I see," he replied, neutrally. "I think we may be able to work something out." Just delay him long enough to finish uploading Tunguska, he thought. A few more cycles. Maybe a solar. That's all. "I will have to, of course, consult with our leader."

Pyotr feigned disappointment. Overacting a bit. As if Barricade couldn't read human emotions. "I came here in good faith with the belief I was negotiating with someone who had real power."

Low blow, Pyotr, Barricade thought. Make you pay for that one. He smiled back. "I do. But I do not want to make promises without at least keeping my leader informed of what he's agreeing to. We had discussed options," he lied so easily sometimes he scared himself—he hadn't spoken a syllable to Megatron, "and this is scraping the high upper end. You know how it is—formality." Actually, serve Pyotr right if he sent Megatron down to finish these negotiations himself.

"Ah yes," Pyotr smiled thinly, oozing sympathy. "The life of a bureaucrat."

If only, Barricade thought. He suspected Pyotr wouldn't be offlined if things fell through. Then again, he'd heard stories about these Russians. "Right."

"We shall await your return." Right on that line between gracious and impertinent.

Yes. Barricade thought. You sure will wait. Until I can be bothered to hop another atmospheric. Barricade nodded and turned back to the hill where Vortex sat, loaded, waiting for him. "Go okay?" the copter asked, kicking on his rotors.

"Fine. Stringing 'em along just fine. Be curious," he said, "to know what they're offering the Autobots."

"You think they contacted the Autobots, too?" Vortex sounded surprised. There was a reason Vortex was a combat guy and Barricade was intel. Had something to do with living and breathing paranoia.

"Don't just think it." He hopped into the copter's open door. "Just have to figure out how to use it against both of them."


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Sorry if I haven't been responding to reviews lately. Things...not so great 'round here. I am happy and gratified that anyone's still reading, much less enjoying this story. When the maelstrom passes, I promise I'll be better at answering questions/comments in reviews. _

XXII.

**Diego Garcia**

Prowl knew Prime wouldn't be able to hear him if he spoke, so he hit his private comm. "Distress call," he said, simply. The Autobots had broken into small clumps in the main hangar, some chatting happily, some speculating a bit worriedly. After so long in restrained silence in the immediate aftermath of Ironhide and Flareup's return, conversations boiled at a loud volume. But, Prowl was relieved to see, they no longer seemed upset about Prime's decision. It was the only logical one, in the circumstances. Prowl wasn't sure they saw all the factors that had gone into Prime's decision, but they no longer seemed on the verge of rebellion. Right now, one group was even—noisily, of course—teasing Sideswipe about his 'diplomacy'.

"From?" Across the hangar, Prime rose to his feet.

"Humans. Soviets. Claim that they're under attack by Decepticons." He switched to voc as Prime approached within range.

"You sound dubious."

Prowl shifted uncomfortably, shutting off his comm and speaking aloud as Prime approached. No sense anyone thinking they were having some sort of secret confabulation. Prime's authority wasn't under question any more, but that didn't mean the questions weren't still hovering out there, ready to swoop. No sense feeding them. "It looks real enough—they've sent footage, and time stamps, in case we wanted to check satellite data." That was the part, Prowl had decided, that was all too suspicious—they were begging to be checked up on. Who with a clear conscience does that?

"And?" Prime was asking, Prowl knew, if he'd checked. He didn't need to ask. Prowl had checked. He wouldn't be Prowl if he weren't thorough to a fault.

"Irrefutable. Several fighter wings. Signs of multiple Decepticons. Only two attackers though."

"Didn't we have some field agents out there?"

"Yes. They missed their last check in. Which was only a half-cycle ago." Prowl frowned. That system was useless. Obviously. He'd said it before, but no one listened. Expedience over logic.

"Who can you verify?"

"Starscream and one of the helicopters. Could be Grindor. Or Blackout. Tracer? He could be here, too." Prowl's subsystem began rattling off a list of Decepticons with rotor modes.

"Why are they attacking the Russians? Now?"

"Tunguska."

"Oh."

Yes. Oh. Optimus had gotten, Prowl thought, so wrapped up in this little diplomatic dancing around that he'd entirely forgotten about the energon impact sites. Yes, Prowl thought, sourly, that was another of Ironhide's errors. He did do more than irritate a few fleshlings and their ridiculous egos. He'd also blabbed one of the locations. Only one, thank Primus. "Well?" he prompted.

"Will the Russians allow the Americans to fly us over their airspace?" Optimus wasn't about to make any more clumsy diplomatic errors. The two countries were technically at peace, but it didn't seem that stable.

"They have asked for our help. The question is, do we help humans." Prowl wanted to cut to the heart of the matter—Prime would let himself get bogged down in perceptions and possible misapprehensions and never get anything done. If they act, if they don't act, it was all the same to Prowl—but he wanted there to be a good reason for it. "That is how they will see it."

"You don't think they will see it as us helping their enemy?"

"Possibility, of course. But it would require that they completely denigrate the value of the Decepticons as an enemy—in other words, saying it's perfectly okay for the Decepticons to attack humans, as long as they are not alliance humans. Unlikely they'd go so far. They were the ones who had stated that the Decepticons did not attack unallied humans."

Cliffjumper had sidled over. "Sort of make them eat their words?"

"In a way. We'd be rude to push it to that length, of course. But if we could simply prove it without making them say it…."

Cliffjumper turned to Prime, "Do we really want an alliance with the humans if they're going to pull this kind of thing with us? They do it once, they can do it again."

Prowl nodded, "Cliffjumper is right."

Prime sighed. "Let's put aside our feelings about the humans and the alliance for right now, all right? Let's remember what's important. And that is not letting the Decepticons ruin this world. Harm life." Cliffjumper hung his head. Prime was right. Prime continued. "We must do what IS right, not merely what we feel is right in the moment." Prime frowned, aware that what he was trying to say wasn't coming out right.

Cliffjumper shrugged it off. If Prime made a decision, that was all that mattered to him. He didn't want to second guess this. He never wanted to second guess, only to know the reason behind it. "I'm in," he said, firmly.


	23. Chapter 23

XXIII.

Nemesis

Barricade killed time back at his IC. The copters were monitoring Suvorov who was dancing delightfully with impatience. Barricade had considered asking Soundwave to hack into the four cell phone calls Suvorov made, but decided in the end, he really wasn't up to talking to the damn satellite right now. Much less asking him for favors.

That's right, the damn ident code/freq code of the RU-784A call was still eating away at him. He pulled up the instructions one more time. Ridiculous. He had the fragging things memorized by now. Maybe what he needed, though, was to start from the ground up.

His comm buzzed. No time like the present: He activated the shell that initiated the code pullup. "On," he said.

Starscream's voice, cool and distant. "Blackout informs me that you wish to speak to me."

Barricade blinked. What? He hadn't said a word to the copter, much less about wanting to speak to the jet. He was pretty sure he'd remember that. Hi, Blackout: I don't feel miserable enough. How's about arranging a little chat between the narcissistic jet and my lowly self again? If Blackout was trying to patch things up…he'd blown it. Already tried that and that hadn't gone so well. What was the idiot copter thinking? Stupid warriors should stay with what they're good at. Still…. Barricade forced his voice to be soothing. "It's no rush," he said. Hoping to buy time.

"Standing here staring at this disgusting organic wasteland is less preferable than talking with you," the jet said.

"Thanks for the compliment," Barricade replied. Jet wasn't exactly laying on the charm, was he?

"What did you wish to speak with me about?"

Oh slag. Think fast, smart bot. Another obvious stall. "What did Blackout tell you?" He cringed, waiting for the jet to sneer through it. His console clicked—the shell signalled it had pulled up the code for this call. He frowned—just what he didn't need—another distraction. His hands called it up, blindly, while his brain raced to work.

"He merely informed me that you wished to speak to me. Hence I have contacted you. To speak to you. As Blackout said you wished." Oh, great. The jet was trying sarcasm. Not something he should put on his resume just yet.

Still, Barricade snickered—another stall. "You are too funny, sometimes, Starscream." He hoped it sounded a little less fake over comm.

"I excel in whatever I attempt, Barricade," the jet said, stiffly. Damn Seeker pride could be hilarious at times. Barricade stifled a real laugh.

The shell popped open its results. Barricade sat up, suddenly, in-venting sharply. The jet's freq code: long. Way too long. "Starscream," he said, urgently, all the humor, fake and real, gone from his voice. "This some kind of Seeker thing, with the freaky-long call freq codes?"

"I do not know what you are inquiring. My freq code is—," he rattled off a string of numbers—embedded in the middle of the mass of numbers Barricade saw in front of him. Barricade pulled up the mystery code and located a similar stretch of numbers in the middle of what, the program had told him, were relay and lag booster idents.

He read them off. "Does that sound familiar to you? At all?" Long shot, but still. If it was a Seeker thing, at least he had a Seeker to ask. One who would greatly enjoy rubbing his nose in his ignorance, but he'd take the nose rub if he got the information.

A long moment of silence. Not silence, really. More like…stillness. "Barricade," the jet said, finally, "how did you get Skywarp's freq code?"


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Is it wrong I love writing Sideswipe so much? Mmmmmmaybe. Even wronger is CPT Okwejekundwe, who is an actual dude, who begged to have a 'cool cameo' in a story. And the 'big man' joke is his, too. _

_Probably no update on Christmas. Yeah, because you'll be reading fanfic on Christmas? Anyway, best for the season to all of you! _

XXIV.

**Over the Atlantic**

Sideswipe settled down against the wall of the plane. This was one of his favorite parts—before battle. Battle was actually his favoritest part, but this, this was a close second. Everyone coming together as a team. All sorts of petty nonsense forgotten, forgiven, made irrelevant. Just before combat, everyone remembered what really mattered. He grinned broadly around the interior of the C-130.

Optimus had asked for volunteers, as almost always. Only a handful of times had any fight been an all-handser. But apparently only a handful of 'cons, so…well, Sideswipe thought, bringing everybody along would look a bit like poor sportsmanship. So, only a few volunteers. Of course he'd been the first—well, second, if you counted Cliffjumper. But Cliffjumper had been right there in that boring leader meeting. Sideswipe was the first REAL volunteer. Anything that did with fighting 'cons, he was going to be at the head of the line.

And he and CJ weren't going to let Ironhide miss out again. What he needed, Sideswipe thought, was to get back in the game. Back at what he was good at. They'd made Ratchet reattach the cannons immediately, right there in the ready-hangar. Ironhide had looked embarrassed at the time, but now, with the weapons back on his forearms, he looked…more himself. Not just his silhouette. He carried himself better, Sideswipe thought.

Ratchet, of course, but Ratchet had made clear that he intended to stay behind with the plane. His recent tastes of combat hadn't set well with him. Still, five Autobots against two Decepticons and some drones? Chances were, Sideswipe figured, Ratchet would be bored out of his processor. And all that equipment that had taken…forEVER to load. Still, you didn't say no to Ratchet. Just on the off chance you needed him.

Flareup had insisted on coming. That DID surprise Sideswipe. She was normally the last to want to fight. Maybe those Decepticon parts were giving her some motivation. More likely, though, he thought, she had her own grudge to work out against the 'cons. Maybe she knew what it felt like, now.

And Prime himself came, of course. If there were going to be humans involved, he wanted to be sure that he was there to…well, Sideswipe had no illusions. Prime was coming along to make sure Sideswipe and Ironhide didn't say anything too irreparably stupid. Sideswipe had sworn to be on his best behavior, and he meant it, but even he felt a little better knowing Prime would be there to gloss over some of his…more awkward moments. Prime hunched uncomfortably in the cargo area of the smaller C-130. The Air Force had insisted something about bad runways, that the smaller plane would be better than the usual C-17s. So Prime had simply folded himself up into a half crouch and locked down, grimlydetermined, as usual, to make the best of it.

Five good fighters, against Starscream, one of the copters, and maybe some drones. Too easy. Sideswipe smiled at the Air Force co-pilot, who had come back to talk to the loadmaster. "Hey, Captain Oak…eee..wee…." he faltered. What was the human's name again?

"Okwejekundwe," the human corrected, his face splitting into a grin. "No one gets it right. Just call me OJ. Just not in front of my wife." The loadmaster snorted. Captain Okwejekundwe grinned at him. "Hey, took you how many weeks to get it?"

"Better at math, myself," the loadmaster said. "Serve you right for having a freaky-ass name like that. Surprised they can fit it all on your nametape."

"I am," Okwejekundwe winked, "a big man in many respects." The loadmaster burst out laughing. Sideswipe got the feeling there was something he wasn't getting but he'd figured out long ago that playing along was a great strategy. Someone would explain it to him later.

"You can call me Sides!" Sideswipe said. Finally, someone who got nicknames. "What's our ETA, Captain OJ?"

"Just a half hour of flight time. We'll be coordinating with your new Russian contacts at their airstrip. Or you will. We'll be waiting there for you to return." His grin faded a little. "We're not cleared by either side to enter Tunguska airspace."

"Just as well," Prime said. "That would expose you unnecessarily to the risk of Decepticon attack. Thank you for doing your best."

Captain Okwejekundwe nodded. "You know," he said, "A lot of us aren't happy about the decision."

"I know," Optimus said. "But your duty is to your country. Still, it is sparkwarming to hear that we are not universally despised by your kind."

"Phuh," said the loadmaster. "Anyone who doesn't like you guys never got to work with you. And soldiers talk rough," he said, nodding at Ironhide. "Only civvies take that stuff too seriously." Ironhide returned his nod, glumly. He was already sick of being reminded about it. Even in a nice way.

"Have you ever worked with the Russians before?" Prime asked.

The two humans shook their heads. "They only enter in competitions. They don't do joint training exercises with…well, anyone really. Still, what we've seen, they're really, really good."

"That's good to hear."

The two humans looked like they wanted to say something else, something a little less 'good to hear,' Sideswipe thought. After an awkward moment, the co pilot said, "Anyway, we're almost there. Beginning descent any time now. Buckle in."


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Yay, semester's finally over. No more online courses for me: what a never-ending nightmare that was! Anyway, things pick up from here!

XXV.

En Route, Tunguska

Some things were better off not discussed over comm. There was, of course, the worry that Soundwave could hack in—even through Barricade's Paranoiac-Plus rated comm security. But there was also the value of a face-to-face, especially, Barricade thought, when the face in question was Starscream. Damn jet wouldn't know how to feign emotion if he sat through a seminar on it. And even then he'd probably consider it beneath some sort of warrior or Seeker honor thing.

Wonder, Barricade thought, if Starscream's ever calculated how much trouble his 'honor' thing gets him into.

So, he'd grabbed a few damaged joints from the recycling outside Repair Bay Bravo as a bone to toss to the Russians. Let them spend some time figuring out joints and hydraulics as a 'good faith' token. He'd even taken the perfunctory step of contacting Megatron. Just to clear that objective. He'd been halfway through explaining the situation when Megatron had cut him off.

"These operations are your specialty, Barricade," Megatron had said. "I leave it to your discretion."

Any other bot would ripple with pride. FROM any other bot, Barricade would feel somewhere in the confident to ebullient range. Translated from Megatron to normal it went something like this: Frag this up and it's your processor on the line. In a Very Slow Painful Offlining kind of way. Well, if that's the way it was, that's the way it was. Barricade had hopped the next copter down—Vortex again—with a fresh shift of drones.

"Russians have been good since you left," Vortex reported, "but they are getting a bit restless."

"Starscream?"

"Last I saw him, bored out of his processor. Looked like he was contemplating goading the Russians into doing something."

"He can goad, when he wants to. Half the time I want to take a swing at him."

Vortex snorted. "Starscream? He can goad even when he's not trying. Seeker training apparently isn't charm school."

"Good point. Heard from Blackout?"

"Starscream's still behaving. Gotten quieter." Barricade couldn't figure if this was good or bad news. "He's ready to haul up."

"Tell him I'm not speaking to him."

"Any particular reason?"

"Set me up to look like a glitch in front of the fraggin' jet. TWICE. Let's just say his sense of humor eludes me."

"I'm sure he meant well."

Long silence. Vortex seemed primed for a bit of small talk. Too bad that that wasn't really Barricade's thing. Especially not at the moment. Barricade finally managed, "What's your read on Blackout, anyway?"

"My read?" A little suspicion.

"Come on, Vortex," Barricade said, soothingly. Almost relieved that the right voice, the right words, came automatically. "You've been doing this a long time—your opinion matters." Vortex's opinion hadn't really mattered, not for a long time. But Vortex deserved some claim to wisdom, just for having survived for so long, and while moderately sane.

"Blackout?" Vortex was choosing his words carefully. "Good mech. He doesn't pull any pride about getting missions like this. Just does the job. Good fighter, but loses focus sometimes. Nothing lethal, but….could get him fragged up."

"Cowardice?" Barricade had a few hundred tricks to deal with that.

"No. Aggression. Gets targetblind sometimes." Vortex seemed determined to get Barricade to understand that it wasn't cowardice.

"We can work on that."

"Not your job any more, Barricade."

"I know. Thank Primus. Still." Now his turn to add to the uncomfortable silence.

Vortex changed the subject. "Turnabout being fair play, what's your read on Starscream?"

A loaded question. Vortex had, thankfully, no idea how loaded. "You know what I know: Plenty smart. Think Megatron scares the smart right out of him at times, though."

"You'd be able to judge—how is he as a combat leader?" Barricade felt a whisper of something, like a cold wind on the back of his neck cables. Was Vortex feeling him out? Was this sedition thing growing? Under his watch? He stalled, delaying, he thought, the inevitable. Why was it that every mech he could even tolerate to be around suddenly seemed to be swirling with treasonous intent?

"Why'd you think I'd be able to judge? I'm not a flyer."

"You being former Combat Control. Figure you led enough missions to be able to compare. Highest CC mission success rate ever." Until…. Vortex delicately avoided mentioning that part. Didn't mean Barricade didn't remember. And after all, Vortex might not know.

"Completely different. Air/ground and present/nonpresent. Still, tactically, he's almost unmatchable. Doesn't waste troops on failing objectives, thinks fast on his feet in fluid situations." Truth, and nothing but. He'd say the same in front of Megatron. Probably take a beating for it, but it would be a beating Megatron would know he didn't really deserve. Wouldn't make it hurt any less. He waited for Vortex to go further. Surely what he'd said was encouraging, yet bland, enough.

"I think he's too hard on himself, sometimes," Vortex said. "Blames himself for things he can't control."

Barricade blinked. He'd been primed for some sort of 'come and join our coup d'etat'. This was…not that. Had he blown it? He replayed his response—no—if you were looking for a likely co-conspirator, Barricade had said all the right things to get the secret handshake. Go back far enough in history and he was a natural pick: who better than someone who owed his life to Starscream? Was he starting to imagine things? He hadn't gotten this far without an intimate relationship with paranoia, but had that even crossed the line?

"I know you're kind of having a bit of a tiff with him right now," Vortex added, hurriedly. The altimeter was showing they were nearing ground. "Just…keep that in mind."

Barricade jumped down as soon as Vortex rolled open his doors, clutching the parts he'd brought for the Russians. He looked back at the copter, spewing drones into the flattened grass. A tiff? Starscream was reminding him of fraggin' Saejon Three, possibly starting an overthrow, and wanted to kill Barricade for the interrogation—and that was a 'tiff'? Maybe Vortex wasn't as sane as he'd thought.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: I totally have a thing for Spetznaz. These guys are hardcore. If you've ever seen them they do just AMAZING ridiculously cool stuff like shooting while combat-rolling and other just amazing stuff. They're the whole reason I bought a Makarov. And the Kalashnikov bayonet.

_In other news, I may need surgery on my wrist. The other day an orthopedist called it 'the worst case he'd ever seen' and that most people (implying, non-idiots) would have taken care of it before it got this bad. I suck. It's apparently medically verifiable now. _

XXVI

Russian Airstrip

Optimus was a little surprised to see the unit standing on the edge of the runway was dressed in American uniforms. Including nametapes in English. The men standing in the rigid formation didn't look like Americans at all. Leaner, tighter. Less friendly. Not a smile among the bunch. Well, Optimus considered, this is their first time. We are feeling each other out, and in the circumstances, perhaps a little wariness is a good thing.

He crouched down close to the unit's leader, who stood in front of the formation. "My name," he said, "is Optimus Prime."

The soldier leapt to attention. "Captain Kozakh," he said, crisply, in only mildly-accented English. "Commanding the 14th GRU Spetsnaz." He gestured at the men behind him, who barely seemed to move enough to breathe. They stood more still than mechs.

"We can, if it's easier, speak your language," Optimus said.

"No need," Kozakh said, blankly. "We wish not to inconvenience you. It is also," he continued, "why we wear the American uniforms. We want you to be as comfortable as possible." They didn't look very comfortable. Several of the uniforms had heavy creases as if from long storage, and more than one had rather crude patching. Still, Optimus thought, the intention was good. The effort was appreciated, if unnecessary.

"That is," he acknowledged, "most kind of you."

Kozakh managed a thin smile. "We have a briefing room prepared, if you and your me—" he paused as Flareup rolled up, "men are ready."

"Yes, certainly." Optimus ushered the bots into the open hangar. It was nothing like Diego Garcia. Heavy orange extension cables ran from floor to the fluorescent lights in the ceiling; some held in place by what Optimus had heard the Air Force refer to as hundred-mile-an-hour tape. The walls, once some shade of white, were splotched and bubbled with rust, the concrete floor pitted where, presumably, vehicles had once dripped fuel. Kozakh led them to a chalkboard at the far end, away from any windows.

"We are told that the enemy, these Decepticons, have satellite surveillance," he apologized, as he crowded them into the far end. "And that they can access electronic information." He flipped the chalkboard over, to where someone had drawn—in painstaking detail—a topographical map. "This," he said, "is what your American allies would call the AO." He picked up a piece of red chalk. "We have spotted one of the enemy robots around here," he circled an area. "The helicopters are using this salient," another red mark, "for their taking-offs. Takeoffs," he corrected himself. "Radiant around them," his English was…odd, but Optimus could follow, "smaller robots, which we have heard designated as 'drones'." He looked up. "You are familiar with these? These drones?"

"Yes," Optimus said.

"Good." He flipped open a binder on a table next to him where a photograph lay in a page protector. "This is one of them."

"Starscream," Cliffjumper said. "Bad news."

"You cannot defeat him?"

"Oh," Sideswipe said, "we sure can. Bad news for him." Cliffjumper nodded, but less enthusiastically.

"The helicopter," Kozakh flipped to another page. "Possibly this one."

"Blackout."

"Yes. He looks like one of your American's attack helicopters. At first we thought our airspace had been invaded by the Americans. We were…initially…relieved to find that that was not the case."

He fanned out more pages—color photographs, non-aerial, of the area of operations, and got down to business, outlining possibly vectors of approach. Optimus was impressed. Even though the Russians claimed to never have fought against the Decepticons before, Captain Kozakh had already weighed out several theories in his battle plan, such as visibility, armament availability, and even statistical analysis. He'd said, for example, that only rarely did Starscream start a fight from the ground, speculating that if they approached hard and fast, he would go airborne.

Even Sideswipe, who hated any plan that didn't involve a direct charge at the enemy, was impressed by Kozakh's knowledge. "I like this guy," he whispered to Optimus. "Can we keep him?"

"He is not a pet, Sideswipe."

Sideswipe laughed. "That's an image, right? Though I think he'd be a better match with Ironhide. Same sour puss face." Kozakh looked up from where he was explaining to Cliffjumper the location of long-range artillery assets.

"Is this information irrelevant?" he asked, quietly.

"No," Cliffjumper said, quickly. "Sideswipe doesn't focus very well. Surely you have men like that."

Kozakh looked over to where his men had fallen out. They sat in quite groups, cleaning and readying equipment. Flareup was moving among them, trying to engage them in conversation. They answered her, politely, but kept their hands working. "They would not survive our training."

Sideswipe's smile faltered a bit. Then, "You don't know what you're missing out on, then. I'll have to show you."

"Don't you dare frag this up trying to show off," Ironhide said, abruptly. The first thing he'd said since boarding the plane. Wasn't quite the old Ironhide, but getting there. Sideswipe grinned.

"Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?"

Ironhide's gaze went to Flareup and back. "Whichever side lets me take a swing at Starscream."


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: yeah, short. It's New Year's Day, so...if you're reading AT ALL, you're probably hungover. :P Besides, I'd rather write lean and taut than bore you with flab. And hurt your scrollin' hand. (Seriously this wrist thing? SUCKS!!!) _

XXVII.

**Tunguska**

Starscream had apparently decided to amuse himself by sharpening his talons against the local forestry. Trees bore long gouges under their dark bark, and white circles like open mouths from where he'd lopped off limbs. He turned as soon as he heard Barricade approach. Not, Barricade noticed, retracting his talons. Threat or oversight?

"Glad to see you too," he said.

Starscream looked down at his hands, still half-curled into attack position. He flexed and straightened them, self-consciously. "I am aggravated by your needless delay. How did you get Skywarp's code? Why do you have it? Have you spoken to him?" The claws flexed dangerously, "What have you said to him?"

"Get down here," Barricade said, "And I'll tell you."

"I will not stoop to your level."

"Stalemate: I will not have this conversation with your pelvic frame." Would the Seeker's pride win out over his desire to know? Nope. The jet folded his legs into an awkward squat. He still loomed over Barricade, just…not so ridiculously.

"You shall tell me now." Half-demand, half-question.

No reason to lie. If he'd had any evidence that Starscream had initiated the call, it would be different. He'd be investigating a possible treason. Right now…he didn't know what to call it. "Megatron initiated a call to Skywarp last solar. I don't know what they said. Soundwave," he watched the jet's lip quiver like a snarl, "is trying to block me."

He watched Starscream's processing the information playing out across the jet's face. "Megatron contacted Skywarp…." Whatever thought the jet was having, it was not a happy one. Yeah, well, Barricade didn't think Megatron had comm'd Skywarp to find hints for Starscream's naming-day gift either.

"One of your Trine, right?"

"Yes," the jet said, offhand. His brain was still chewing over something that tasted fairly unpleasant. "Barricade," he said, after a moment, "why are you telling me this? Are you certain you know nothing more?"

Barricade shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "All I know is what I've told you." He didn't even want to touch the first question.

"Skywarp," Starscream looked up at the sky, almost fearfully. As if he half-expected the other jet to drop down at him. "Megatron must be seeking to replace me. No. I had—had I already requested transfer at that point? Even so…. Why Skywarp?"

Hate to interrupt the completely incoherent musing, but…. "Seeker Trines are spark linked, aren't they?"

Starscream's lip curled, as if appalled by Barricade's ignorance. "Yes. They are our primary spark links."

"What does that do for you?"

"It is stronger than most, being trebled, but a spark link like any other." A hesitation. "Do you not know? Barricade," his eyes got a sly, gloaty line, "have you never spark linked?"

Barricade felt his mouth go hard. "Starscream, it's me. Who the frag is going to want to spark link with me?"

"I would certainly never consider it," the jet said, "But you are not THAT bad. Perhaps."

Barricade rolled his eyes. Thanks for the compliment. "Great. I'll list you as a reference. Can we get back on topic: Topic NOT being what a loser Barricade is?"

"I much prefer that topic," Starscream said. "I could expound on that at length." Barricade glared him down. "Fine. Why do you think it is significant that we are spark linked?"

"Not really sure. But if you're connected like that…chances that Megatron might try to use Skywarp to manipulate you?"

"Yes," Starscream sighed. "Highly likely." He frowned. "It would likely be effective, as well."


	28. Chapter 28

XXVIII.

Optimus got a bad feeling. Something wasn't adding up. Something wasn't making sense. The American uniforms, for one thing. The fact that all of the orders issued to the Russians were in English, but what little chatter there was was in Russian. The whole scenario—it had bothered Prowl, as well. But it was nothing he could, as the humans said, put a finger on. The Russians were accommodating enough, and certainly a tough group. They had, with a hundred apologies, refused to let the Autobots give them a ride any distance to the Tunguska AO, choosing instead to run alongside. And unlike the Americans, they ran in grim silence. Faster than the Americans—every soldier, fully combat loaded, averaging four minute miles. For miles. Well, he couldn't blame them really for not wanting to get too close to the Autobots. The unknown quantity. But still…just something off about it.

A mile out, they slowed, flattening themselves to the ground, advancing slowly. Surprise seemed the best tactic. Sideswipe had grumbled, but Prime wanted a better idea what they were up against.

"There he is," Sideswipe's voice burst in his audio. Looking where the mech pointed, Optimus saw Starscream's tall figure, gesticulating at a smaller figure. Barricade? The Russians hadn't said he was here. Another thing that simply didn't add up. Sideswipe spotted Barricade an instant later, from his derisive snort. "He'll be easy. Someone else can take him. I want someone worth my time." Sideswipe snicked his blades out of their housings.

"I got him," Ironhide muttered. "Got a bit to settle with that four-eyed freak." He looked over at Flareup, who frowned, but readied her own weapons.

Kozakh crawled over to Optimus. "What now?"

"We want to keep Starscream on the ground as long as possible," Cliffjumper said, from next to Prime. "He's airborne, he's too maneuverable."

"We can rally jets," Kozakh said. "I did mention air support." A slight downward quirk of the mouth, as if mildly annoyed that the Autobots might not have paid attention to his briefing.

"Yes," Prime said. "But I would prefer to keep as many humans out of our fight as possible." He frowned. He'd prefer to keep the Russian soldiers out of the fight, too, for that matter. "I shall engage Starscream." He cut off Sideswipe's protest with one hand. "You and Flareup are the fastest. You should head to the salient and deal with…whoever we have to deal with there."

"Hope it's Blackout," Sideswipe said. "Have yet to kick his skidplate." He gestured to Flareup and began skirting the jet's position.

He made a hand gesture. His men popped up from the light-forest floor. While the Autobots had been talking, Kozakh's men had been creeping along, almost invisible. "We can begin the assault at any time," Kozakh said.

*****

Barricade shook his head. Starscream was still convinced, half-convinced, that Barricade knew more about Skywarp than he was letting on. His own damn fault, really. Broke Ironhide, yeah, but also broke something else. Something that almost mattered. Blackout had said Starscream was jealous of him? Starscream wasn't jealous. And right before he'd left the jet, Starscream had clumsily, awkwardly, tried to apologize. As if telling him about Skywarp made what Barricade had made him to do Flareup all better. Stupid warriors—he'd never understand their moral calculus. Still, time to put on a happy face. Another show, friendly up. Because, yeah, that had worked so well last time.

"A token, only," he said, handing over his handful of junk to Suvorov. Really, a token. Junk. That's what this whole deal is, on both sides, I suspect.

Suvorov wasn't impressed. "What," he said, with some finicky distaste, "is this, my friend?"

Barricade smiled easily. Jerking Suvorov's mind around was just the break he needed from all that Starscream angst. "Small mech," he said, stepping closer, so Pyotr could feel every inch of the difference in their height. And remember, I am a small one, Barricade wanted to say. "Can't exactly fit a planet buster in my undershorts." He snorted at his own joke. He'd have to tell that one to…oh. He didn't have anyone left who was talking to him. "Besides, this is the kind of stuff the Americans got. Apparently nearly went mental at the chance to dissect a limb." Part of his mind flicked back to Starscream, the unwilling donor. Damn jet wasn't exactly a willing donor of anything except his perpetual bad moods. Honestly didn't know why he cared.

Stop it, he ordered himself. Losing focus. Suvorov. The Russian looked at the blackened pile with some distaste—it would probably stain his suit. He turned and nodded to his driver, who began loading the parts into the trunk of his car. Barricade's eyes narrowed. Something was going on here. Suvorov wasn't normally at a loss for words. He watched as Pyotr tugged up the sleeve of his suit—chrono check, apparently—and pulled some sort of face at his driver. The driver ducked into the trunk, apparently busy arranging the junk parts. Suvorov's phone rang.

He made a good show—entirely fake, Barricade realized, but by now he was caught up in the little show they were putting on. Just for him. Didn't he just feel special? He'd puzzle out the why later. Meanwhile, Suvorov's face ran the gamut of looking puzzled, then alarmed, then angry. He snapped his phone shut.

"Time," he said to Barricade, "to put, as the capitalists say, your money where your mouth is." That sounded…unpleasant. Barricade blinked, allowing himself to look bland and slightly stupid. Never outfoxed an enemy with him thinking you were smarter than he was. "The Americans," Suvorov explained, a slight tinge of frustration in his voice. "They are here. With your Autobot enemies."


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N Oh yay! Battle setup! This one goes on for a few chapters. I struggle with battle scenes because of course, you want to get the idea that it's complete chaos and stressful, yet still have the reader have a *clue* what's going on. _

XXIX

*****

Sideswipe crept along a cut the Russians had told him paralleled a ridge that went straight into the LZ. Flareup rolled behind him wobbling on the knotty roots. He hoped for her sake the LZ was flat. Above him, he heard the whup-whup-whup of rotors. He felt his central line blaze—his favorite feeling. The rush right before an engagement with the enemy. Yeah. This would fix everything. Everything. The Autobots would get new friends, better friends, than the Americans. From what Sides had seen, he really liked the Russians' style. And this would bring everyone back on board. 'Hide would prove himself again, and stop looking so damn mopey; Flareup would work…whatever was eating at her out of her systems. And Prime? He'd finally have time to worry about his men—not the piddly fleshlings. Or better yet, Prime could not worry at all. It'd been too long since Sideswipe had seen the Autobot leader without that crease of worry between his ridgeplates.

He gestured for Flareup to catch up. "Ready?" She nodded grimly. The next rise would take them to the LZ. "You can hang back if you like." He flashed a grin. "I'm hard to keep up with." She managed a tight smile and a slight roll of the eyes. A little of the old Flareup. That was also, Sideswipe decided, an encouraging sign.

He pulled her into a quick hug. "Don't worry, Flare. I got your back." Won't let these 'cons hurt you, he thought. Not again. He pulled away before he could register the disappointment on her face.

*****

Barricade's mission commnet message reached Vortex just as he got lift. Autobot attack. Knew it was going too well. Another few lifts and they'd've had all the energon from this site. Only stuff worth having from this spark-forsaken place. Immediate problem, of course, is that fully loaded, he had a lot of drag, which hampered his maneuverability. And locked him into his vehicle mode.

"Moving," he heard Blackout acknowledge. "Down in a klik."

"Vortex," Starscream said, taking over. "You get clear. You have the most value right now." Long time since Vortex had heard words like those. Time was he'd've teared up at anything that sounded like praise. He knew better now: it was his cargo that had value. Not him.

He acknowledged, grabbing lift only to have his sensor net alarm as he took several hard hits to his starboard side. He grunted across commnet. "They're here." He saw two smaller shapes dash out of the treeline toward him. He clawed for lift, swinging clumsily to bring his main guns to bear. The damn bots moved too fast for his loaded maneuverability. Still, he sent rounds after them to give them second thoughts.

The dronemaster clicked on commnet. Vortex heard the soft mutter as the dronemaster directed the drones en masse up the salient. Weapons fire stitched across the LZ. From the far side of the salient, another bot, red, raced up, trying to launch himself after Vortex. He caught one of Vortex's cargo hooks. Vortex swung awkwardly in midair, one rotor dipping perilously close to the ground, shredding tree trunks. Splinters of wood flew wildly. The drones swung their primary fire on the Autobot clinging to Vortex's underbelly, more than a handful falling as flying splinters cut through their lightly armored bodies.

Vortex got altitude, the Autobot squirming to ready some sort of attack. As he cleared the trees, Vortex cut power to his rotors. He dropped toward the ground, hitting his terminal velocity quickly. Cutting his cargo hook, he blazed his rotors back on, jerking upward with enough force to dislodge the Autobot's grip. He tumbled hard onto the ground and lay, Vortex thought, pleasantly still.

*****

Optimus ordered the humans to stay down. Starscream had used humans as metaphoric shields before—he didn't doubt the jet would hesitate to try the same tactic. The jet considered directly attacking humans to be beneath him, but he knew that Optimus would rather let himself get hit than risk injuring humans. A neat game the jet had played before. He had nearly reached a dashing distance from the jet when Starscream had whirled, eyes wild, and launched himself into the sky. Optimus cursed.

*****

Ironhide headed along the path he'd seen Barricade take. One score he could settle early. A surprise to the others to see Barricade here. A pleasant surprise for Ironhide. First, the mech thought, I'll show him how hard I can hit with my cannons on. Then…well, I'll improvise. Maybe I'll have a little game for him. Like, pick which limb I shoot off next.

"CJ!" Sideswipe's voice. Loud. Ironhide turned, hitting his comm. "Sideswipe. What's up?"

"CJ—copter dropped him. He fell! He's not moving."

"LZ?"

"Yeah."

"Be there." Ironhide cut comm. Looks like he had another grudge to work out on the 'cons. No matter. There was room in his spark for the both of them.

*****

The jet's order cut across mission commnet. "Rally at the LZ. Blackout is coming down empty, unfortunately. He must be allowed to load."

"Load what?" asked the dronemaster. His responsibility to move cargo up. Under fire. Barricade could tell he wasn't looking forward to it. Underarmored and only lightly-armed drones, sent down on a retrieval mission, suddenly turned into hot combat—all the dronemaster's responsibility. Welcome, Barricade thought, to the Decepticon luck. Why we're all such fraggin' optimists.

"Load the drones," the jet said. "Right now we need them more than energon." Barricade felt…stunned. This was the mech who insisted drones were expendable. He wondered what had given the jet a spark of conscience. He hoped it wasn't him. Conscience was a miserable burden. Having one himself—two, really—he knew all about that.

He hustled to the LZ himself, feeling his usual useless. No weapon, even. Should have used his good karma with Megatron to demand that little restriction get lifted. Oh, you like my work? Finally convinced I'm not insane? How 'bout letting me carry a pulse rifle? Megatron, unlike Suvorov's proverbial capitalists, was not ready to put his money where his mouth was.

"Gonna have to hitch with the drones," he said.

"Yes," Starscream acknowledged. "You can assist them to load."

Great. Glorified dronemaster. Knew better than to complain. Waste of vocalizer charge. He raced through the thinly spread trees toward the noise. Ah, he thought, and now I know they've gotten to me. Running into battle unarmed. These warriors have ruined me. He resolved that at least he wouldn't say something heroic about honor and/or glory. This was frag-stupid, and he would not use any other words to describe it.

As he hit the outer edge of the drones advancing up the hill they picked up their pace. Part of their programming—to follow any Decepticon signature. Also part of their programming not to target any Decepticons. Also, his brain fed him through the surge of what he refused to call fear, part of their programming not to disobey a direct order.

Maybe he didn't have to run headlong into certain easy-target status. He grabbed one by the shoulder. "Let me see your weapon."

The drone held it aloft, confused. Frag. Too literal. "Right. Correction, hand me your weapon." The drone followed all the proper safety procedures including clicking the safety on and handing it to him grip-first. If Barricade survived, he was going to write the dronemaster a commendation. If he remembered. And, as Barricade had thought/expected/hoped, basic drone programming did NOT happen to include the directive not to let Barricade have a loaded weapon.

He patted the thing on the head. "You're unarmed. Make it to the copter and climb on. No override." That was as far as his conscience went. The drone turned and dashed off after the others. Barricade hefted the weapon. Standard pulse rifle. Not too spiffy. But easy to operate, reasonably accurate and sturdy as the sides of the Pit. He'd take it. Not like he had a choice.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N Eight chapters left after this, and all that angst I made you wade through? The payoff is coming. Pretty much nonstop showers of ugly with occasional gusts of uglier. _

XXX

*****

Flareup ducked behind a tree. She was pinned down. A dozen drones held her at bay. Across the LZ from her, Sideswipe was scything his way through a cluster of the little things. Flareup felt sick. She loved Sideswipe, but…he was enjoying cutting down the drones. They barely knew how to fight, much less fight back.

She…couldn't bring herself to fire on them. She'd sent several hundred rounds at Vortex, and probably the same amount at the descending Blackout, but just couldn't bring herself to target one of those blank little faces. The others were different. The drones had no choice. By definition. Her spark ached watching Sideswipe carve through them.

Meanwhile, while Sideswipe was butchering them (she couldn't think of it in any other terms, really), Cliffjumper was lying flat on the field, his head tossing from side to side. Small sparks shorted from his joints, and a puddle of a bunch of terrifying fluids leaked from under him into a technicolor puddle. The drones left him alone.

That gave her a thought.

What if--? The thought terrified her. What if she stopped even her suppressive fire? Would they fire back even then? No. I can't do that. But…I was afraid before. Of the repair bots, and there was no reason to be afraid then. And her armor was light, but it could survive a few direct hits.

She raised her arms, dropping her gun and shutting off her energon blade, and, after a ventilation, stepped out from behind the tree.

They didn't fire. Keeping her hands up, she advanced, cautiously, a step towards them. They shifted back, almost recoiling. Almost as if they were afraid of—her. "Hi!" she said, loudly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to go check on my friend." She gestured with one hand over to where Cliffjumper lay. They flinched back from her gesture, and clicked and beeped nervously to themselves. Having a conversation? She couldn't tell. All she knew is that they weren't firing, and, as she approached, they parted from her path. Keeping weapons trained on her, of course. The cluster of drones followed her as she approached and knelt down by Cliffjumper's damaged frame.

"CJ?" she said. "Can you hear me?"

The red Autobot's eyes flickered open. "Flare—get down!" he gestured weakly with an arm that was responding at less than 10% power. "Behind you!" he gasped. She turned, alarmed, but only saw the same cluster of drones, now staring at her curiously.

"My friend," she told them, pointing to Cliffjumper. "Yes?" She nodded. They had mimicked gestures before, when she was in the repair bay. One or two nodded now, as well. They withdrew another step.

*****

Starscream launched himself into another spinning dive, firing furiously around where Blackout was preparing to load the drones. Five of the enemy—Ironhide had engaged the other side of the mass of drones that the one named Sideswipe was assaulting. On mission commnet, Starscream could hear the dronemaster's harried voice rallying a rescue party. He logged their coordinates—after this pass he would give them covering fire. One Autobot was down, and the purple cyclebot was out of the battle bending over him. Had she become the medic, now? That was not her job when she was at Bourzey. Better, though, the jet thought, that she realize she is not a warrior. He would not engage with her.

Optimus Prime, on the other hand, was a different story. The red and blue bot charged up the hill from the lookout Starscream had taken himself—so Prime had intended to try and take him single handedly? Foolhardy.

He adjusted his approach vector, angling his fire in a line from Blackout towards Prime, gritting his dentals in satisfaction as the Autobot dove for cover. Not so brave as to take direct hits, Starscream thought. Still, it was a kind of respect—that the Autobot leader feared Starscream's weapons. The jet spun up for another pass, recalling the coordinates of the drone rally.

What was—humans. Americans. Rushing in the wake of Prime. So much for Barricade's plan to ruin the human alliance. It had failed, apparently. The jet snorted: he wouldn't waste his time with the fleshlings. But still…it was curious.

He pulled altitude, wondering if Barricade had seen the Americans. Now, Starscream thought, Barricade will know what it is like to fail. He was not sure how he felt about the prospect.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: That think Flareup thought she discovered last chapter? She's wrong. There's another reason the drones won't fire on her. Play with that one while you enjoy me irritating you with some Plot interrupting your Battle. _

XXXI.

**Nemesis.**

"Your loyalty to the Decepticon cause has never been in question, Skywarp," Megatron said, smoothly. The Seeker looked uncannily enough like Starscream's old protoform that Megatron found it disturbing. As though time had suddenly spooled itself backwards and he was in the past. It made him all too aware of how much things had changed.

The illusion was shattered when Skywarp moved. Even his smallest gestures were different from Starscream's. Where Starscream had a tendency to twitch, his hands to flutter nervously, Skywarp's gestures were smooth, unworried. He, Megatron thought, has a clear conscience. You can see in the very way he moves.

"I've never given reason to have my loyalty questioned," Skywarp said, his voice calm, his eyes level. For a moment Megatron missed the spark of fear he'd get in Starscream's eyes, the slight hitch in the jet's voice when he said something too bold.

"Indeed," Megatron said. "Which is why I have summoned you here."

Skywarp made no move but to tilt his head, curious.

"Tell me, Skywarp. What is the reason your Trine is sundered?"

"Our Trine is not sundered," Skywarp replied. "Duty alone calls us to separate quadrants."

"Oh, come now," Megatron purred. "You have not flown as a Trine for how many megacycles?"

"That is irrelevant, my lord." Megatron got the impression that the title was a distraction from the potential offense of his words. A wise warrior does not call any of his leader's questions 'irrelevant.' "The Trine bond does not fade with distance. Or time."

Megatron tried another approach. "I am glad to hear that, but also," he said, pulling his face into a moue, "A little saddened. What if, hypothetically speaking, of course, but…what if a member of a Trine had gone…unstable?"

"Non-hypothetically, you are speaking about Starscream."

Megatron smiled, thinly, trying to look sheepish and caught-out. "Yes."

"Unstable how?"

"Moody," Megatron began, cautiously.

"Starscream has always been moody. Is it affecting his performance?"

"I worry," Megatron said, his voice like silk, "that he is unhappy." Not entirely a lie. An unhappy second in command was only a small step from a treasonous one. He'd seen already how some of his warriors were cleaving to the jet. Perhaps leftover—and misplaced—loyalty from the days of Starscream's command, but Megatron suspected something more. The Decepticon forces could ill afford a rupture over command. But still, he had to tread lightly in dealing with this. His warriors might tolerate him disciplining the jet—whose arrogance was notorious, after all—but they would surely balk if he stepped over to outright elimination. Hence, Skywarp. One way or the other, he would bring Starscream under his heel.

"Unhappy?" Skywarp let the word hang, dubiously. "You summoned me because you feel he is unhappy."

"He is," Megatron said, "my second in command. His performance, and his well-being, are important to me. How important? That I summoned you because he is unhappy."

Skywarp looked dubious, but couldn't, or daren't, speak out. "So you wish me to speak with him?"

"I wish you to find out what is making him unhappy. And report back to me. Especially if you feel he is unstable as well."

Skywarp frowned, trying to feel to the bottom of this puzzle. "Yes, my lord," he said. "I think it fair to warn you, though, that should he be unstable…. The Trine takes care of its own."

"Of course," Megatron said. As long as Starscream's conniving and his factionalizing of the troops was removed, Megatron didn't much care what happened to the jet. Oh, ideally he'd like to make the jet suffer himself, but there was not, perhaps, time for that in the present circumstances.

If necessary, he would bow to circumstance. It was the only thing he would bow to.


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N In which we start to figure out what the Russians are up to. Reference in this chapter is me trying to explain why, in the 07 movie, Barricade is like the only mech without a range weapon. Either Something is Up, or Orci and Kurtzman suck. So….I made up a reason. _

XXXII

Tunguska

Barricade blinked in surprise as the humans dashed right by him and up the slope to the LZ. It wasn't like he was exactly inconspicuous—three times their height, standing in the midst of a thinly studded forest. A machine in all this nature. Black and white and silver in all of this yellow and brown.

But no, they hurried by him simply as if they had other places to be and no time to fritter messing with him. It was…odd. Almost funny. As an experiment, he moved after them, following them up the hill. A few turned to look: none turned to fire. And he wasn't about to waste the limited charge of the pulse-rifle on humans. Though a target that small might provide an amusing challenge….

He burst onto the LZ clearing moments after the humans, who suddenly found their trigger fingers and their voices, firing wildly. Huh. Whose side were they on? The usual humans the Autobots messed with knew to avoid shooting at their allies—these soldiers fired at anything remotely mechanical.

A few even finally seemed to notice Barricade behind them, pinging shots at his head. All right—that wasn't funny. He ducked, swinging the pulse rifle like a club into their midst. They scattered like birds, moving on to another target.

This made no sense.

Until he saw the cameraman. More precisely, recognized the cameraman as Suvorov's driver. He clicked on mission commnet. "Know they're a pain, but don't hit the humans," he said.

"Easier said than done," Blackout muttered. His front gun rotated along its limited firing access, punching holes through the crowd. "Am I supposed to take hits?"

"Be over there in a klik," Barricade said. "Just…try not to hit them."

"I presume you have a reason for this above providing us with such an interesting challenge?" Starscream said.

"We're being watched. Keep it at that."

"Drone programming is to return fire," the dronemaster commented.

"Don't override." A drone vs human fight looked less…unfair. "Just pull them back to load quickly."

"'Nother issue: New group of humans. Coming from the east. Soviet uniforms. Are they the enemy?"

"Hold: attack neither. We're being set up." Barricade saw it play out in front of him—pretty lame attempt to follow on his work. Still, imitation is the highest form of flattery, right?

"Set up how?" Starscream asked, but before Barricade could answer, one of the Autobots—Sideswipe—spotted him and disengaged from the drones, roaring after him, swinging his bladed hands with delight. Barricade snarled, firing three rounds at the 'bot. And cursed. Damn pulse rifle didn't have charge to pierce through the armor, though the rounds hit with enough force to stagger the Autobot back. All three rounds had hit center mass, though. Still got it, part of his processor said, happily. For all the good it does me. Could be throwing gravel at the damn thing.

Which wasn't a bad idea. He pretended to stagger back, falling hard on his back, his arms flailing for a grip. Sideswipe loomed over him. "Hi there," the Autobot said, swinging one arm far back to get as much force behind the blow as possible.

THAT was his idea of clever battlefield repartee? Standards had fallen, hadn't they? Barricade lobbed a handful of the thick greasy mud at the Autobot's face, rolling fast to one side. Coming up, at point blank, he fired again. Definite hits. The 'bot grunted, went down.

"Barricade," Starscream's voice was unreadable. "Do I see you with a weapon?"

"Do you?" he snapped.

"I merely wish to know what I shall have to authorize in the post-battle analysis." More precisely: what Megatron would beat him for.

"I can lose it and you can never have seen it," Barricade offered. Weapon wasn't worth the price. Not with the jet already nursing an oversized grievance against him.

"Do not worry about me," the jet said. "However, if you are going to violate such a high level directive and use a weapon, I suggest you use it in some manner that does us credit. Lobbing mud does not."

"How 'bout I try insults next?"

"Your aim is better with the rifle," the jet said, dryly.


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Only five more chapters left, and the ugly is already starting. Thanks to everyone who's borne with this story so far: I hope the end will pay off for your time! _

XXXIII

This, Blackout thought, was an entirely new level of suction. Let's recap, he thought. Grounded. Stuck in vehicle mode, quarter-loaded with drones, some still carrying stone chunks. Getting nailed by humans and Autobots, with only feeble dronefire as protection. With only a 45 degree firefan. And now…the jets.

The Soviets had apparently called out their fighter jets again. Blackout counted at least three wings of the jets, wheeling over the LZ, running strafing runs that didn't seem to care who they hit. Ground troops must be the human equivalent of drones—the Russians certainly didn't seem to care, or even notice, that the strafing runs tore through the masses of their own men. Three wings, nearly colliding with each other in the tiny airspace.

A brief respite as Starscream stabbed through their formation and they broke to chase him. Unsuccessfully. Starscream might be a pain in the crankshaft to work with, but at his job, he really was unmatchable. Blackout wished he weren't taking so many damn hits so he could appreciate it better. Then, just that he wasn't taking so many damn hits.

"Barricade, where the slag are you?"

"You don't think I can actually help, do you?"

"You'd be another target, at least. Draw their fire or something."

"Think you're doing a fine job of that without my help. Besides, currently got an Autobot in hot pursuit. You want him to come say hi?"

"Love to. Bring him by my main gun for the traditional Decepticon greeting."

"Better not hit me in all the excitement."

"A little faith? Besides, I hear you're packing now."

"You'd better be afraid, after setting me up about the damn jet."

Barricade tore by Blackout's position. Somewhere he'd taken a hit in the leg, so his gait was off, but still enough to keep him ahead of the silver Autobot, who was moving slower than usual. Probably had a few hits himself. Blackout certainly hoped. Nothing was more irritating than an uninjured Autobot. He'd rather be locked in a room with Starscream. Blackout took his opportunity and opened up with his gun. The Autobot staggered to one side, flailing.

Barricade whirled and shot at the mech's tire-feet. The tires burst with gratifying pops.

"Aiming low, Barricade; that's what I like to see." Blackout said, acidly.

"Save the flattery for later." Barricade ran to cover Blackout's exposed backside, kicking away a few grenades some soldiers tossed at them. He took up a position near the copter's tail, firing as rarely as possible, trying to conserve charge and not be caught as the Evil Robot Who Shoots at Innocent Humans. However things fell out, the Russians could edit their footage to serve their purpose—they could play it as 'evil robots attacking humans' (probably their first choice); 'evil Decepticons attacking everybody'; 'evil Autobots attacking everybody'; or 'valiant Soviet resistance to combined assault.' He grudged them some approval—these Russians knew how to cover their crankshafts.

"Whoa!" he yelled, ducking as the Sukhoi came around for another strafing run. Blackout had snapped his rotors flat into their storage configuration, trying to give himself the smallest possible ground silhouette. Barricade hunched under the copter's tail as the jets overflew, punching the ground with their guns. "Not our biggest fans," he muttered.

"Not the greatest shots, either," Blackout responded, "For which, for one, I am grateful."

He grunted, taking a blow to the far side that rocked him on his groundwheels. "Gonna have to go airborne, just for a bit," he said, kicking on his rotor. The blades started sweeping the air. He rocked with another hit, as the rotorwash seemed to push drones who had not yet loaded away from him. The dronemaster already had them running toward the treeline. "Watch out," Blackout said, as he got a little lift, and rotated his guns to fire in a circle. "This time it is your biggest fan."

Barricade looked over his shoulder and saw Ironhide at the same moment the Autobot spotted him.

*****

Flareup ducked as incoming metal rounds sailed by her head. She was working feverishly at Cliffjumper, remembering everything she ever knew from Ratchet's Emergency Basic Repairs training, and hoping it would work. She'd clamped off the main lines, and run a quick power reroute through one of Cliffjumper's legs. One hand was…beyond her abilities, but the other she boosted to somewhere near functional strength.

He pushed her away with that same hand. "Get someplace safe, Flare," he said.

"I'm not going to leave you. I'm almost finished." Rounds sailed back over her head from pulse rifles. She turned to look: the drones, returning fire. Whether they knew it or not—and they probably didn't—right now they were protecting her. See how far a little kindness and understanding goes, she thought, grimly. They are not the enemy. "Now," she said, giving Cliffjumper's central power line a bit of a jump with her energon blade, "See if you can sit up."

"Get out of here, Flareup," he said. "I can take care of myself."

"I am not going anywhere without you," she said. "You think I did all this good repair work—under fire, no less—for nothing?" She managed a grin. "Now, come on." She tugged at his good arm.

He muttered some obscenities, but pushed to a sitting position. He tested his legs out, gingerly. "Not going to break any speed records on these."

For about the hundred and fiftieth time, Flareup wished she were bigger. She'd be able to carry him, or at least take a good chunk of his weight. "It'll be fine. We'll go together."

"That kind of optimism's gonna get you killed, Flareup." He struggled to get his legs under him, leaning heavily on her shoulder armor to boost himself up.

"That kind of optimism got me this far," she said. She gestured to the drones, who beeped, approaching closer. "Thank you," she said, carefully. "We're going to go now. Go…," she looked across the LZ to where other drones were gathering around the copter, "go be safe." She pointed. They started moving off, slowly, returning fire from the humans.

"See?" she smiled triumphantly at Cliffjumper. "Drones."

"Not what I see." Cliffjumper threw his injured arm awkwardly on top of her, pushing her to the ground. Before she could protest, the ground around them pocked with rounds as several large jets blasted by. He fired back at their retreating shapes.

Flareup pulled at his arm. "Let's just get out of here!" He was too injured to fight—she honestly didn't think her repairs would hold.

He shook her off. "This is what we came here to do."

"CJ!" she said, shocked, bumping back a few feet on her tire. "We did not come here to attack humans!"

"If they fire on us, they're the enemy, Flare. Sometimes it really is that simple."

"Then what are the drones? They didn't fire on you—are they the enemy?"

He pushed her down again, out of the way of another pass of the jets. "Don't have time for this right now, Flare. Either fight or get the hell out of my way." He crouched, aiming at another airborne shape—the too-familiar F-22, coming in low. "Got you now, Starscream," he muttered. He tracked the jet, firing shots in a line along Starscream's flight path, nearly taking Flareup's head off in the process.

She flattened herself to the ground. By the time she pulled herself out of the sticky mud, Cliffjumper was gone.


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N Ask and ye shall receive, dear reviewer: Optimus Prime! It's challenging to write a battle scene and keep all the coverage going—like five different football matches on at once!_

XXXIV

*****

Optimus blasted his servos into a powerful jump, throwing himself in front of the jet's flight path as Starscream came around for another strafing run. His hands scrabbled over the jet's exterior, finally dragging him to ground. Optimus landed hard on his back, hard enough that his sensor net temporarily blanked. His hands lost their grip and the jet's form gouged the earth behind him, half-transformed. The jet's legs swung wildly over his head.

Optimus was on his feet before the jet could gain his—he swung at the larger 'con, throwing the jet into a sideways roll. Starscream came up firing both chain guns, first to his knees, then to his feet. "To what," he snarled, "do I owe the dubious pleasure of this manhandling?"

Optimus lunged forward, grabbing the jet's wrist above the gun barrel, jerking it off target. Then, harder, yanking ferociously at the arm itself. "We were invited. You weren't."

Starscream laughed until Optimus's pressure strained his shoulder joint. It cracked. He winced. "Not again. Not this time," he hissed, and, clamping his other hand over Prime's, blasted his jets in a hard takeoff over Prime's head. Optimus's sensor net blared white, then red, as the jet's torque snapped his wrist to a piece of useless flopping metal. He landed hard on his back, gasping from the pain.

"That is not pleasant, is it, Optimus Prime? Shall we let you go for five solars with merely stabilization? Shall we give you the experience of joint death? I am certain your medic would appreciate the challenge."

"You talk too much," Prime said, rising from his knees to aim a blow at the jet's head with his good hand. The blow staggered Starscream to one side, but he recovered with his chain guns, dancing back out of Prime's reach.

"On the other hand, you talk about as well as you fight, Autobot." He knew Optimus didn't have a range weapon on him. As long as he stayed out of the Autobot's reach, he could beat him easily. Optimus lunged at him, swinging both arms down at his shoulders, and tripped heavily as two vehicles roared in between them. Barricade and…the other Autobot Ironhide. Barricade leapt up from his vehicle mode—Starscream could see coolant and energon spatters down his leg as the smaller mech turned to fire. The rounds punched into Ironhide's vehicle mode doors. The Autobot skidded to a stop, between Optimus and Starscream and transformed.

Starscream would not allow himself to get distracted: he fired another salvo at Prime, knocking him back, and then tracked down to hit the smaller Autobot. "You are supposed to be loading," he rebuked Barricade.

"Doing our best. Blackout's had to grab some sky to be useful."

Starscream could hear, from the far side of the LZ, the characteristic cracks of Blackout's gunshots and the louder whoomps of his missiles. "He shall require your assistance when he lands again."

"Know it." Barricade snapped, and dropped into his vehicle mode again, racing around behind the jet back to the LZ.

"Coward!" Ironhide shrieked after Barricade, lunging to follow. Starscream slapped him, hard. Ironhide's eyes blared white with fury. "You too," he snarled at Starscream, crouching into an attack position.

*****

Sideswipe was confused. He didn't like being confused—generally it made him angry. As now. Sure, he could take he'd fallen for that (dirty) trick and run across the range of the copter's weapon. And he accepted that (somehow) that cringing little freak Barricade—who Bumblebee had beaten, after all!!—had managed to shoot his feet, sprawling him hard in the mud. After, of course, that other dirty trick the little freak had pulled. He was beginning to see why nobody liked Barricade. Not that he needed a lot of convincing in that department.

But what really chafed his camshaft was that now, sprawled on the ground, he'd become a target. More: a target of the humans. Most of the drones had broken for the treeline after Ironhide had sent a friendly greeting to Blackout. Barricade had torn by him, Ironhide in hot and angry pursuit. Oh, how Sideswipe wished he could see that fight. Better yet have that happen where he could drag himself over and give the 'con a little taste of his blades.

But the humans…? Confusing enough the 'cons didn't seem to think him worth finishing off—an oversight he would personally make sure they'd regret—but now the humans, whom he'd thought for sure were on his side, were ponging him with a few hundred rounds a minute. It did not tickle.

He pushed himself to his knees—they still worked at least—by punching his energon blades against the mud. He swung his long arms in a full circle—that at least drove the humans back to a respectful distance. "Not the fraggin' enemy!" he shouted. He pointed over to where Blackout was settling down to the ground again, doors already wheeling open. "That's the enemy! You showed us fraggin' PICTURES!" He ducked his face, using the fairings on his upper arms as shields as a shoulder-fired missile sailed past his face. Had the Russians gone bonkers? There'd been that one nanovirus on Uacal Station that had sent the Autobots a little crazy—attacking anything that moved—but he didn't think humans would respond to that nanovi.

He swore as Barricade wheeled by him again, this time with Ironhide NOT in pursuit. The 'con headed back to Blackout's side, ignoring Sideswipe. Fatal mistake, Sideswipe told himself. He dug his forearms into the soil, spinning the drivewheels. Not a particularly heroic way to move, this modified crawl, but sometimes the hero had better things to worry about than how cool he looked. Sideswipe hoped these moments didn't happen too often.

*****

Flareup ducked behind a fallen tree. Above her, the jets had slacked their fire. Risking a glance up, she saw several of the Soviet jets spinning in a furious dogfight. Against…another Russian jet. She simply didn't have processor-space, or time, to puzzle that one out either. It seemed that everyone was fighting everyone else. Chaos. The humans had gone insane. They were shooting at her, even the ones she remembered from Captain Kozakh's briefing. She didn't think that what had worked with the drones would work with the humans. She hated to, but she comm'd Optimus.

"The humans!" she said. "They're attacking us!"

She heard the sounds of battle over his comm. "Yes," he said. "Here as well."

"What do I do?"

A sigh. "If you have to, defend yourself." A grunt, as he took some sort of hit. "We do have to consider that this is a test."

A test? Flareup frowned. She wasn't sure she wanted to deal with humans if they endangered lives—human and Cybertronian—in some ridiculous test of loyalties. Maybe (and the thought tasted bitter) Ironhide hadn't been entirely wrong.


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N More (hopefully) exciting combat. And you figure out why the story's called 'fallout'. If you haven't already, of course. _

XXXV.

*****

Starscream staggered as Ironhide scored a direct hit with his pulse cannons on one of his engine mounts. The stagger threw him harder into Prime's off-hand punch, which cracked the jet's cockpit canopy. He tried, desperately, to push back, to get range. Up close, his long arms were a liability—Prime kept himself well within the jet's proximity so the jet couldn't manage to swing any real force behind his blows.

Ironhide shot at his left heel joint. Starscream screeched, his hands clawing at air for balance. Go down, part of his processor told him. Go down, come up fighting. Get your range that way. He let himself drop to the hard ground, firing his jets to give him some momentum. Prime grabbed at his injured ankle (Starscream howled again), jerking back against the jet's pelvic frame. As if, denied the chance to re-take Starscream's arm, he would settle for a leg. Starscream flailed with one arm toward Ironhide, who was merely allowing his cannon to recharge. He loomed over the downed jet, grinning evilly.

"Don't like being held, do you?" Ironhide said. "It's okay to hold Flareup while she gets tortured, but…not for you, huh?"

"I did not—" The jet cried out as Prime brought the hard elbow of his injured arm down against the jet's side, causing his sensor net to flare red. Punish me for what I did, he thought, wildly, but not for what I did not know I did.

He heard the rising pitch of Ironhide's pulse cannon's recharge stop. He closed his eyes. This, he knew, would hurt. He would not die: he did not intend to die easily, and he had taken hits from the mech before. That didn't mean he cared to repeat the experience. Especially at point-blank range.

An explosion. A rush of air. He cracked his lids to see a shadow over him, legs straddling his downed form, blasting at both Autobots. The silhouette was unfamiliar, but when the mech turned his face….

"Skywarp," he croaked. Unsure if he was happy to be reunited with his Trinemate in this circumstance or not.

*****

Mixed luck, Cliffjumper thought to himself. Optimus and Ironhide had the jet between them—they didn't need his help. The Russian jets had stopped—not without some marvelous explosions overhead that had rained parts down on the LZ like dead leaves. Which had at least driven the humans under the treeline for cover, most of their weapons rendered useless by the EMP. He wondered what had happened. Who had brought an EMP (Primus bless him). The bad luck side of it was that, without the distraction of the heavy jets and their fire, the copter had been loading more or less unmolested.

Sideswipe, the idiot, was crawling toward the copter. Barricade was…amusing himself, apparently, firing shots carefully over the Autobot's head, as if the spectacle of Sideswipe ducking down into the mud was a neverending source of humor. Blackout fired intermittently, just enough to suggest to the few assaulting humans they really ought to keep their distance. The drones were loading, like the blank little things they were: in orderly little rows, moving lockstep whenever possible, stepping around a comrade if he happened to fall, until the dronemaster—who stood little larger than a drone himself and looked white with exhaustion—picked three or four out to load the fallen drone.

They were going to get away? Really? Cliffjumper was no Sideswipe, but the idea of the 'cons getting out of this place more or less functional—after what they'd done to him, what he'd seen them do to Sideswipe (and even before, Flareup, Ironhide) filled him with a constantly roiling rage.

But even he admitted (he was no Sideswipe), he was in no condition to dash across the fields of fire onward into glory. It would end more like dashing onward into offlining. If the 'cons didn't get him, his injuries would. Flareup had done her best, but some of his injuries were a bit beyond Emergency Basic Repairs. Still, he had to try to do something…..

*****

"Stop messing around and shoot him for real, already!" Blackout snapped at Barricade. Barricade had been winging shots over Sideswipe's head for the last…oh, forever. It kept the Autobot from advancing or returning fire, but only so long as Barricade kept it up.

"At that range this slaggin' thing has all the punch of a wet sock," Barricade retorted. "If he realizes that, the whole 'suppressive fire' thing evaporates, and then where are we?" He squeezed off another round, watching Sideswipe splat himself in the mud for about the fortieth time. If nothing else, Sideswipe was going to have a hell of a time cleaning his gears after this.

"Where the hell we are right now," Blackout said. "Look: cavalry's arrived." The copter was right—the red armored one, Cliffjumper, was making a mad dash across the open space, firing wildly at the pair of Decepticons, determined, Barricade suspected, to do something ridiculously heroic, or heroically ridiculous (was there really a difference?) to save Sideswipe. Stupid, especially if one considered that all he was 'saving' the other Autobot from was splatting himself in the mud.

"My turn," Blackout said, punching his main gun. With a shriek and flail of limbs, Cliffjumper went down again. Blackout hoped he'd stay down, this time. Like fighting fraggin' zombies sometimes. At least drones knew when they were too self-injured.

"Aww, now where's the sportsmanship in that?" Barricade said.

"Write me up if you want. Me? I'm beginning to see Vortex's point about staying alive."

*****

Sideswipe flared with anger as he got Cliffjumper's message, 'Coming to help'. Sideswipe didn't need anyone's help. Especially didn't need a rescue. "Don't need your help!" he'd bellowed back. Which struck him—just like last time. Just like with Sunstreaker. But Sideswipe could never hold onto anger very long, so the emotion faded to a prickly and uncomfortable mix of worry and bad memories. Not again. Not another one.

Just like Sunstreaker, pushing himself, way too injured, way too hard. Trying to keep up with Sideswipe. The downside of being so damn good, Sideswipe thought, was all that competition. Even from mechs who didn't need to compete. Like one's own spark-twin. Sunstreaker didn't need to compete to get respect, especially not Sideswipe's respect. No one could compete, Sideswipe thought, with me—no one else has my luck. Even now—he'd lost his feet, and had several dozen pockmarks from the humans on his armor, but he was almost full-function.

He cried aloud as Blackout's rounds tore through Cliffjumper's already fragile frame, one of Cliffjumper's own glass-gas rounds bursting in the mech's face. Cliffjumper fell, soundlessly, against the mud.

No, Sideswipe thought. Not again. Another one lost, because of me? Not this time. Not this time. He looked at Cliffjumper's body—the mech's fingers twitched, weakly. He could still get a warm buzz of static on his comm—Cliffjumper wasn't gone yet. There was still a chance. It meant abandoning the battle, but some things, Sideswipe had learned the hard way, were worth more than battle stats. And Cliffjumper was one of them.

He threw himself sideways toward the red mech and began dragging him slowly to the treeline. Out of harm's way.

This time, he told himself, don't let your last words be 'don't need your fraggin' help'. Last words he may ever hear.

*****

Skywarp jerked his head up, registering something. He and Starscream were back to back, engines clanging against each other, facing down the two Autobots. "Starscream," he subvoc'd urgently. "Time to go."

"No," the jet replied. "We can defeat them. Now that our odds are more balanced…."

Skywarp bumped his Trinemate deliberately with an elbow. "No, I mean we have to go NOW. Russians are coming. With a nuke."

Starscream cursed, and hit the mission commnet, relaying Skywarp's message, his voice frantic. Then, "You and I?"

"Let's try to intercept."

The two jets leapt for the sky.


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: In which, I suppose, a stab at redemption goes wrong. For everyone. _

_A reviewer had commented that he/she didn't believe a nuke was a valid threat against Cybertronians. I am of the opinion that any weapon with a heat blast powerful enough to vaporize metal would be lethal. Heat in the bombs used on Nagasaki and Hiroshima were calculated to be 5000 degrees Fahrenheit, for a radius of half a mile—more than the Tunguska battlefield as I imagine it. Additionally the blast wave that close would be able to destroy buildings: a mech's metal frame would certainly feel more than a tickle. And yes, I did actually research this in plotting out this story. I am that lame. _

XXXVI

Barricade's systems ran cold. The Russians were more devious than he'd given them credit for. Seems when they played hardball, they played hardball. They weren't even withdrawing their own men. Only the cameramen had melted away, and it was unlikely even they'd manage to get to minimum safe distance. Probably only left to take the footage out of the immediate strikezone.

And over there—Flareup. Pinned down by the humans, caught in the treeline where the humans had taken cover from the falling shrapnel. He had to—no he didn't. That was only an approach. You lost your mind. Lost your perspective. But still. A warning. Atonement. Make up for what you did. For her. No. For yourself. Clear your conscience. Give her a fair chance to get out alive. Not that far—just run over and then dash back onto Blackout.

"Be right back," he said. The copter was loading the last dozen or so drones. He still had time. Still, he had to make this look good. He launched himself at Flareup, catching her above center of gravity, spinning them both through the air. He tucked, landing hard on his shoulder, feeling its main gyro crack. He pulled her audio to his mouth. "Russians, with a nuke. Get out."

She pushed away from him, openmouthed. "Get out!" he yelled. Was she stupid? "You want to die?" He plunged forward, suddenly, as something hit him hard right above his pelvic frame. His hands grabbed for her shoulders, to balance himself.

"Why, 'con?" he heard Ironhide's voice behind him, colder than the Pit. "YOU want to die?" Ironhide's hard hands grabbed his shoulder, squeezing hard on the injured one, hauling him off Flareup. He spun Barricade around and into his other fist. The Decepticon's sensor net flared, his visuals offlining for a klik. His bad leg gave, and he stumbled heavily to the ground.

Ironhide seized him by his upper arm tire, twisting its stabilizing fairing. Barricade tried to tough it out, but, he admitted, he wasn't really that tough. Pain sucked. Still, he tried to fight back, scraping the claws of his good hand across the Autobot's shoulder gearing.

"Stop!" Flareup was shouting. "Ironhide, we don't have time. Listen to him!"

"Only thing I want to hear from him is cries of pain."

"She's right," Barricade grunted, sagging to his knees as Ironhide continued to twist his stabilizing fairing. "Russians with nukes. We're all dead if we don't get out."

Optimus, who had limped up behind Ironhide, took in Barricade's words. "We can't take the chance he might be telling the truth."

Ironhide looked dubious, looking between Optimus and the LZ. Something clicked in his brain, perhaps the sight of hurry as the last drones flung themselves into Blackout's cargo hold as the copter was already beating the air with his rotor blades. As they watched, the dronemaster leaned off the rising copter to haul up one tardy drone by the arm.

"Right, fine. He comes with us, though." He twisted the fairing again. Barricade gasped in pain.

*****

"Do something!" Blackout yelled, over mission commnet. "They've got Barricade!"

"We are trying to intercept the bomber, Blackout. At the present moment, that is the larger priority." Starscream's throat ached. Not Barricade. How could he have been so foolish? How had he gotten himself captured? He knew better. He should know better.

"It's Barricade!"

"I am aware of that." Under the cool tone, Starscream struggled. He glanced over to Skywarp, who flew, silent, and grim, at the reverse of the vector he'd intercepted on the Soviet communications wired into his vehicle mode. What would Skywarp think of Barricade? What would he think of Blackout? Any of the mechs that the jet refused to call friends, but who had tried nonetheless. Would Skywarp think he was betraying a comrade or following the logical tactical priority? What would he do if Skywarp wasn't here?

"Slag you, Starscream. Go after him myself."

"You will not. Direct order, Blackout. You must deliver the drones to the Nemesis. That is your mission. Do not deviate." The words were cold, calm, leaderlike, but Starscream felt ill. Abandon a comrade to certain death? He remembered how furious he had been when he'd been captured. Dropshot had probably simply run in fear. Grindor, he'd been too inexperienced. He'd barely managed to get out with his own armor intact. But still, it burned at his core that they had left him. He hated doing the same. And to Barricade. He felt a lump in his throat about bringing up Saejon Three. Unfair. Wrong.

He heard Blackout roar in frustration, but knew the copter would follow his orders. Just as he knew there'd be hell to pay afterwards. Was this…? Was this fate's sick way of handling things? Barricade had given him an order that infuriated him, and now…he had just done the same to Blackout. He hoped Blackout would do a better job accepting his apology.

No. "Skywarp," he said. "Intercept. We have one captive down there. I must go." He started to peel off vector.

"Starscream," Skywarp said. "It's too late. If we engage now, we'll all be caught in the initial blast. His best chance to survive is to let the Autobots take him captive. They will get themselves safe and take him along."

A hot mix of anger and shame burned in Starscream's chest. Skywarp made a horrible kind of sense. "Yes," he said, his voice raw.


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N. Well, second-to-last chapter. (And yes, sigh, there is a sequel in which things get even worse for all involved.) Apparently in fanfiction circles one frequently posts the music one was listening to while writing the chapter? For the record, if you're curious, this and Wednesday's chapters were written to Jaya Lakshmi's Jewel of Hari. *blink* _

_Those of you who have read 'control' will get this stuff faster. _

XXXVII.

**Over the Atlantic**

Barricade awoke to his face hard against a vibrating metal floor. Plane. Must be in a plane. Either that or the Pit is extremely well lit. And vibrated. And full of feet. Not that he'd rule those out. He felt hands working at his head, other weight on his shoulders, his legs. He twisted, trying to get his hands under him.

"HOLD him," a voice said. "Get his head."

Another voice. "Are you sure, Ironhide?"

"Walked around with one of those damn bombs in my own head for how many megacycles? You think I'd lie?"

A new set of hands, hard, on the back of his head, forcing his face against the metal floor. His neck servos whined as he tried to resist. He felt one of his facial plates snap off. "No," he tried to yell—really just pushing sound into the floor. "Get off me." Feeling every humiliating inch of his smaller size and weaker servos. He felt a hatch in the back of his head prised open, the painful rush of air on previously-unexposed circuitry. He hissed. "Get off me," he repeated, weakly.

"Not a chance, 'con." A harsh laugh. "Ratchet'll let you up as soon as he disarms your little deadman-switch in your cortex." That did not sound like things boded well for Barricade's future. The Decepticon squirmed, but the hands on his head—Ironhide's, he guessed—merely ground his face harder against the floor.

"And the disarm code?" Soft voice, over his left shoulder. That must be Ratchet. Barricade felt the little bites of alligator clips as Ratchet attached a disarm decrypter to his cortical relays.

"Key in his alphanumeric designation."

"Which is?" A flavor of impatience in the medic's voice.

"Should be somewhere near the rear spark chamber." A rough hand tapping along Barricade's central dorsal.

The medic's hands shifted. Barricade felt tools against his dorsal armor. He tried to tighten down those servos, but that only sent flares of pain through his sensor net. "All right," the medic's soft voice said. "Can someone read that to me, please?"

"Sure," A new voice, a heavy weight across his legs. "Huh. CC26G643AB. That it?"

Barricade winced as the medic entered the code through his disarm device. He'd expected it to hurt. It didn't. Still. Now they could kill him and…well, what the frag did he really care? He'd be dead anyway. So what if he blew away zero or a hundred with him in the process? Probably no one even notice he was gone. A distant thought bubbled up from his memory. _Well, life, nice knowing you. It sucked. And now it's over._ Why had he thought anything would have changed? No one cared then: no one cared now. Not Starscream. Not Blackout. Certainly not Megatron. Kind of fitting that disarmed his death would be pretty much a summary of his life: useless. Entirely unremarkable.

"You….!" The hands on his head squeezed against him, as if trying to crush him. Ironhide's breath came thinly, as if someone had punched the air from his ventilators. "I know you. I remember you." He lifted Barricade's head by sheer pressure. Ironhide's hard eyes met his, the Autobot crouched low in front of him. Ironhide filled his entire optical field. "Don't I? I remember you, Meta."

Barricade gritted his eyes closed. Waiting for the inevitable blow. He didn't have long to wait—his head snapped to one side, hard enough to twist his entire body onto one shoulder. The bad shoulder. He gasped, tried to push off the shoulder.

Big splayed feet. "I'm right. Aren't I?' Ironhide bent down, hauling Barricade up with a strong grip under his shoulder gyro. He shoved Barricade back against a rising bulkhead of the plane, fingers digging into Barricade's underarm. "Say it for me. Say it."

The muddy mech who had lain across Barricade's legs rose to his knees—Sideswipe. "Ironhide?" he asked. "What's going on?"

"Ironhide," Ratchet said, his tone warning. "The battle's over."

Ironhide ignored them. "Say it. You know what I want you to say." He backhanded Barricade with the barrel of his pulse cannon. Barricade saw silver and black fragments of his own facial plating scatter in the air, felt the cold drip of energon from his chin. The air still burned the exposed circuitry in the back of his head. "Say it!"

"CC," he gasped, "26G643AB…personal designation Barricade." He tried to bring up a hand to his injured face, to wipe away the leaking energon. Ironhide snatched the hand, driving it back against the side of the plane. Barricade's shoulder servo sparked and went into critical failure.

"That's not all," Ironhide growled. His blue optics were inches from Barricade's.

As Barricade spoke, energon bubbled and spattered from his mouth onto Ironhide's face. "Mish…mission designation Meta." He dropped his eyes.

"And the rest."

"I-I can't." Barricade gritted his eyes closed. He could feel Ironhide's rage like a heat against him. Over the Autobot's shoulder, he heard Optimus command, "Ironhide, stand down."

"In a klik," Ironhide said, over his shoulder. "Just want to make sure." He turned back to Barricade. "Come on, Meta. We'll say it together." Barricade turned his head to the side. He gasped as Ironhide squeezed at his injured wrist. Alarm signals fired over the redline of his shoulder gyro. "Come on. Say it with me. 'Mission designation Meta'," he paused, waiting for Barricade to gasp his way through the phrase. "Good. Now the rest. 'And…'," he let his voice trail off.

Barricade's voice was thin, but managed, it seemed, to echo around the entire plane. "And I am your god."

*****

**CentCom**

MSG Sternburgh looked up as SGT Mason knocked on the rickety wood frame of his office door. Light spilled in from the hallway outside, gilding Mason's silhouette. "Got something for you." Mason flapped a telex.

"Exciting?" Sternburgh reached over his desk, his elbow bumping the desk lamp that provided the tiny office's only illumination. Wiring had gone out here a few weeks back and…getting S1 his lights back in his private office just wasn't a priority. So he made do. As always. This time by means of a pair of orange extension cords snaking under Mason's boots.

"Part you'll like is at the bottom."

Sternburgh pulled the telex under the pool of light. He looked up. "Come on in, then." Mason stepped in, hesitated, unsure whether or not to close the door. He compromised: half-closed.

Sternburgh mumbled through the headers, "Confirmed 2.5 megaton nuclear blast coordinates, 60*54'06.96"N101*55'44.94"E," he looked up. "Siberia, right?" Mason nodded. "Blah blah blah, five Alliance Autobots, unverified resistance….American troop presence? Are you kidding me?"

He looked up. Mason shrugged. "Good part further down," he prompted.

"Yeah, but you know I like to get a feel of the whole thing first. And this feels…greasy." He dropped his eyes back to the telex. Mason could tell Sternburgh had hit the spot when Sternburgh's spine shot upright.

"EPW: Cybertronian. Affiliation: Decepticon. Designation: Barricade. They have him? They fucking HAVE him?"

Mason's face burst into a wide grin. "Toldja you'd like it."

"USAF flight, right?" Mason nodded. "USAF crew, all of them, too?" Another nod. Sternburgh chortled. "That's the line we'll yank to get him. Get me Yee and tell her to start packing her charm. She's going Stateside."

Mason grinned. "You got it, Master Sergeant." He turned to go, blinking at the corridor's now-bright-seeming light.

Sternburgh called out after him. "Fantastic find, Mason. You are my fucking hero."


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: Alas, another one ends. Yes, sequel ready and going through final edits/desuckification. One of the flaws that I freely admit to in this story is that the forced alternation between Autobot and Decepticon scenes made the story move…rather slowly. It was good in that it forced me to pay attention to Autobots and give them some conflict and depth, but…it did not exactly zip things along. I can promise you that that error is not repeated in the sequel. If you're still actually with me, that is. ^__^_

_Anyway, I hope the end here has some sort of payoff and you enjoyed reading. It's always sad for me to see another story finish. I hope you'll join me for the sequel, which, alas, will update a bit more slowly—2x a week most likely. Thank you, those of you who have stuck out this story so far for giving it a chance through its rougher chapters! _

XXXVIII

**Over the Atlantic **

"You don't know," Ironhide was remonstrating, as Barricade faded back in. His sensor net had offlined him, into blissful non-feeling. He'd wanted that. He'd had it—blessed, blessed numbness. And now it was gone again, and hard-edged ugly reality was back in all of its technicolor brutality. "I know: I was there. This is a monster." Barricade became aware of his surroundings beyond the voice—the hard metal of the floor, the curve of fuselage behind his shoulders digging into his upper arm tires, the fairings behind his neck. No one on him, no guards. Why bother? He couldn't go anywhere. It took supreme effort to focus his eyes—he wasn't in any shape to mount a daring escape. Didn't trust himself to pull himself to his feet.

Optimus's voice was tense to Barricade's audio. "What does it matter?" The large mech was in the same position as before, crouched, cramped, in the low ceiling of the plane. Unable to move easily and with one hand swathed in healing foam.

Sideswipe chimed in, "Yeah, 'Hide—we know he's the enemy. What's the big freakout?"

Ironhide's voice, louder. "The big freakout? This---this THING hijacked primary controls. Of all of us. Ever watch yourself shoot your own men?"

"Whoa." Barricade felt Sideswipe's eyes on him.

"He did what? A primary-systems hijack?" Ratchet seemed interested in the science of it.

"Yeah. Combat control. Let down firewalls so you can all be controlled tactically by one bot. From a distance. We got our afts shot up—he was sitting in some Primus-damned computer room."

That's not what it was like, Barricade thought, dully, but then…it doesn't really matter. Would they care that he felt every injury his mechs took? Not if it didn't stop him. That wasn't the Autobot way. For Autobots pain meant stop. For Decepticons, it meant you aren't trying hard enough.

Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough. In the end. The fairings on the back of his neck were getting torqued by the drag of supporting part of his bodyweight. He tried to push himself upright. His bad shoulder sparked again, pulling an involuntary cry from his vocalizer.

Ironhide turned. "See? You can ask him yourself. Deny it, Decepticon."

He shook his head. No point. A lie right now wouldn't serve him any better than the truth. And he was…so tired of running from the truth. So tired of all the megacycles he'd spent trying to bury Meta. "You…" he managed, "At Saejon…?"

Ironhide lunged toward him—Sideswipe restrained him with force, the silver Autobot's damaged tires skidding on the metal plating. Tires Barricade had himself shot out. Yeah, sure Sideswipe's really in the mood to be doing me favors, he thought. Wonder why he's stopping Ironhide…. "Yes," Ironhide choked, his chassis heaving. "I was there. I was at Saejon Three. You might remember I tried to warn you. I warned you." He turned to the Autobots. "You know what he did? He cut my voc. Because he didn't like what I was saying."

"H5?" A spasm shook his body, causing the medic to bolt forward in alarm.

Ironhide's mouth ground in bitterness. "You do remember."

Yeah. I remember. Every time there's a battle and I'm left out. Every time I'm left off the weapons-upgrade list. Every time I get denied an armor upgrade. Every time I look in a Primus-damned reflective surface and see these four eyes that took me a decacycle to stop spinning to 270 vid field. Every time I have no fraggin' friends, I remember. He hiccuped as Ratchet knelt by him.

"Try to relax," the medic said. "Stress won't help. This is just a basic sensor block, all right? It'll help." The medic waited for him to nod. I'll do better, Ratchet thought. I'll do better this time. He didn't care—he couldn't care—what kind of monster Barricade was—all he forced himself to see right now was a bot with injuries. A bot in pain. And in the end, that's what they all had in common. Ratchet found himself looking over his shoulder at Flareup, who stood, hands wringing, lost. Maybe Flareup was right with all of her philosophical talk. Red optics, blue optics—what mattered wasn't the color.

Barricade felt the medic's pity as powerfully as the sensor block. He hated them both. Hated how he desperately wanted them both. Half of his controls went numb. He wished the medic had some sensor block for his cortex, for his memory. Oh what he'd give not to think right now…. For the medic he managed a weak smile of gratitude, which tore open a clot of energon in his jaw. Blue fluid began leaking from his mouth again. The medic blotted it with a coagulant, his eyes strange.

"Don't help him," Ironhide spat. "Let him suffer. For what he put us through, he deserves to suffer."

"Put who through?" Ratchet asked, quietly. "Whose side were you on at Saejon Three?" Ratchet knew the answer. Ironhide did, too. Ironhide shot a look of hot betrayal at the medic.

"It was a massacre on all sides," he managed, tightly. "One orchestrated by that disgusting freakish little…."

"Droneling," Barricade muttered. "You forgot droneling." Oh, how well he knew this litany of abuse. Heard it…how many times? Repeated it to himself a few thousand more.

"Don't need your help, you filthy four-eyed genocidal freak." Apparently not, at least in the insult department.

"Stop," Ratchet said. "This isn't the time for it."

"Oh, when is the time for it? Huh? You see what happened to Sideswipe here? You think he's not at all to blame for Cliffjumper?" Ironhide gestured over to where a portable regen chamber hulked near the cockpit of the plane.

"Saejon Three was a great tragedy," Prime said. "But, it brought us you." Barricade, if he'd had the energy and coordination, would have rolled his eyes. There's the Autobot leader, self-anointed Prince of Peace, trying to turn anything into a positive. Silver lining even in Meta's insanity? How many hundreds dead? Prime will find something positive to say. Primus. It struck Barricade as an altogether different kind of insanity. One perhaps less immediately dangerous than Megatron's variety, but lethal in entirely different ways.

Ironhide approached, Sideswipe still dragging along holding on to one of Ironhide's arms, ready to restrain him again. "Tell them, Barricade. Let's hear your excuses. Let's hear you blame someone else. Let's hear you dodge what you did."

Barricade forced himself to meet Ironhide's eyes. "No. I did it. All of it."

"You hear?" Ironhide turned back to the others. "He's proud of it! This filthy sack of---" He kicked Barricade hard in the leg. His formerly-good leg. An armor plate snapped, sending pieces flying across the cargo hold. Barricade winced.

"Stop it!" Flareup lurched across the hold, stumbling over Barricade's legs, sprawling over his body. "Stop hurting him!"

"No," Barricade murmured. "It's all right. I deserve…this."

Ironhide tore away from Sideswipe, landing another kick in Barricade's chassis, nearly getting Flareup's fingers. Barricade's grille crumpled. He gasped in pain. "I don't need your fragging permission," Ironhide hissed.

"Ironhide," Prime said, firmly. "The battle is over."

"Yeah, right? So that's how it works? Someone calls time or waves a flag and all the stuff that happened before, it's all…nothing? Game's over? Time to shake hands and get wasted together?"

"Who are you?" Flareup asked, her voice shocked. "You say you're one of us, Ironhide. But are you? Are you sure you've left behind their ways? Or did you just change paint jobs?" She looked down at her own armored swirls, and back up at him, accusingly.

Ironhide staggered away from her, his face a mask of shock. He rebounded. "Well, ask him yourself. Ask him. In fact, why don't we ask about you?"

The sensor block was making Barricade light-headed. Either that or the wires still dangling from the disarm decrypter in his cortex were firing strange signals. He felt his larger pair of eyes start to drift to the sides, back to 270. Fought it, as if it were the last humiliation he could bear. "Yeah," he said, his voice faint and thready. "I did it. All of it." He pushed feebly at Flareup's torso. "Leave me alone." He didn't have the energy to fill it with enough rancor.

She reached over him and wove her fingers through his. He splayed his hand away. "Go away," he repeated. "I set you up. The whole thing…was me." His eyes rolled sideways again, flickered in horizontal stripes. "Leave me alone."

"No," Flareup said, tightening her grip. "You did this for me. You didn't leave me alone when I was hurt. And scared." She rested her head near his cracked grille. He felt energon from his damaged jaw drip onto her shoulder armor.

"It was a set up!" Ironhide howled. "How stupid are you? You can't tell me you seriously think—"

"ENOUGH!" Optimus's voice boomed loud enough to blank Barricade's audio. When it kicked back on, the Autobot leader was still speaking. "We will speak about this more at Diego Garcia, Ironhide." Barricade couldn't even manage curiosity at what he'd missed, only a dull relief that Ironhide's shadow was no longer looming over him.

Flareup was still with him, on him, her ventilation slow and even and steady, her fingers tangled in his.

He pushed again at her, weakly. "Set you up. Go away."

She lifted her head and met his optics with hers. The two freaks—he with his four eyes, she with her two different colored ones. Only…she could fix hers if she wanted. Why didn't she want to? He had a feeling he should know. "You've done bad things, yes. You've also done good things. I know." Her optics glistened. "I choose," she said, softly, "which I want to see. It's a choice I have. The only choice I have." She laid her head back against his chassis. "The choice you gave me."


End file.
